by Fernando Mendez

The sun is beating down, suffocating me. Dust motes dance in the air to the buzzing music of the cicadas in the trees. Sweat trickles down, soothing my sun burned face, burning my eyes. With every shot, I think of different things to say to my mom to try and comfort her.

I shoot and think maybe “It’s gonna be alright, she’s no longer in any pain” will do. The ball clangs off the goal–no good.

How about, “She’s in a better place?”

Another miss.

Everything that comes out feels forced or too cliché. The problem is that I don’t really believe those words.

Finally, I shoot and think that maybe she just needs someone to be there, a shoulder to cry on, not a Hallmark card. The ball swooshes through the hoop, all net, seeming to agree.

She finally comes out to tell me what we had all been waiting for. We let the sadness and relief wash over us. All I do is stand there with the ball cradled in one arm, holding her with the other, but I know its enough.

After she leaves, I return to playing, tears clearing tracks down my dusty face, every bounce shutting out the world around me, letting me escape.