We don’t play often. Sure, Mira asks anytime the weather is comfortable, without too much balm or chill. I’m usually the one that refuses. But not today.
She rolls her hips, steps into her toss. With a snap of her elbow and a perfect release, she looses the blue frisbee toward me. I keep my eyes on it, a spinning disk closing fast. Planting my feet, I thrust my arms up, hands open, and catch it above my head. Then it’s my turn to toss it toward our son.
Who watches it noncommitally, as it drops out of his reach. Then gives me that look he reserves for my Dad jokes. At least he picks it up and tosses it in the general direction of his mother.
After a few misfires, we hit our stride. Volley follows volley. Mira laughs in delight. Frankie even cracks a smile or two. I grin, even through the tightening sensation in my rotor cuff.
There we are, a family fooling around with a frisbee on an April Fool’s afternoon. There’s a poem waiting to celebrate such small, sacred moments. There are whole worlds to explore there.
scurrying robins
even during pandemics
life goes on
Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads’ April 2020 – Day 1 – April is for Fools and Poets
Poets and Storytellers Weekly Scribblings #13: All The Small Things
Frank J. Tassone 
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