I didn’t think I would mind
that they changed it;
who cares for what game
the lines and nets
are painted and hung?
I like pickleball more
than tennis, anyway…
But, that’s not how it looked
when we played
on Thanksgiving,
father and sons
surrounded by lofty pines
and sunshine,
good company
and laughter.
That’s not how it looked
when I asked you
the deepest questions
I could muster
in the unmoored
and wandering
moments of my youth,
hoping a father’s words
could heal my pain
and bring clarity
to my scattered mind.
That’s not how it looked
when we threw down our bikes,
taking the court
as our shorts still dripped
with pool water, pretending
to be serious tennis players
while continually stopping
to double over with laughter
the instant a joke
hit just the right chord
of absurd boyhood humor.
That’s not how it looked
in the countless memories
held in both my mind and heart,
aching now inside me
as I’m reminded
that all things must change,
even those that represent
the very best of our lives…
But who cares
about an old tennis court,
anyway?
Me.
I do.
