Memories

I sometimes joke that the secret of life is to keep your memories in check until the dementia can start erasing them.  And it’s true.

I walk into Clare’s room, and all I see are memories (along with piles of clothes).  A display case in the shape of home plate holds 14 softballs, each of them with a date and a few words of explanation written in magic marker.  I can remember every one of those dates and why the contents on the shelf above the case are important, too.  They’re not just medals and trophies and more softballs but mile markers in an athlete’s life.

That’s why I white-knuckle my way through March and April, the memories are so intense.  I can let go of travel ball (who’d want to keep on remembering Toledo or Joliet, anyway?) and even Clare’s baseball days.  But the high school and college stuff will be with me to the day I die.

And the White Sox, too.  Why won’t Robin Ventura ever argue an interference call?  I’ll probably be asking that question inside the casket on the way to the cemetery.