The dirt of the baseball field is grown over. There was a game there. There were many, but time, seeds, and tender blades cover that past.

On that field some were honest and some cheated. There, great plays were celebrated, miscommunications talked out, and dropped balls…not necessarily forgotten.

I like the dirt of the field. Like it, I can do nothing for the past except prepare for the future. WE are all guilty of beauty and ugliness. WE are guilty of kindness and the lack there of. To it, I am no stranger.


All I can do today is make cookies, say I’m sorry, and try to love. What would you have me do more?