Spring Is for Remembering

Meghan Sterling

I’ve swung so hard I nearly hit the mark, the ruby

glint of a pitcher’s left eye, my father’s disappointed

stare. Spring blossoms coming down like so many

baseballs into the cage. How I finally understand

the way it can rain anything. Rain longing, rain memory,

rain sunlight, rain pollen, rain snot, rain blood. Rain

my grandmother’s Chanel No. 5. My Anais Anais was

grounded, would rather hide in the darkest corner of

the house, sitting out of playtime with its dirty thumb.

Every time a ball came at me, I would run away. Maybe

the ball was just a metaphor. Maybe the ball was something

difficult to master. Maybe the ball was unpredictable, like

a stranger’s dog, or the afternoon rain that ruins a walk into

the cemetery. Maybe the ball was the path I didn’t want

to walk down, choosing instead the path littered pink

with paint chips, perfume samples, plum blossoms.