She hands me the green and takes the blue. And we stretch and swipe and watch the birdie flop in the grass. And when it falls apart, we superglue it.
We maneuver ourselves into places that block the sun so we can see more clearly.
Because sometimes sight is better in shade.
We avoid scratchy brown crackly and choose soft bendy green and do an awkward flip-flop dance. And I think I should be playing in something more sensible.
And sometimes she flops and rolls and we giggle. “Oh, g-ma, you almost got it.” And I feel the burn in my shoulder and the back of my thigh and remember the years that stretch behind.
And I can’t hide from that.
And we take turns throwing rackets at the tree to dislodge the birdie that rests on the branch we can’t reach through any means of stretching.
And summer is stretching its fingers into fall. Green’s fading, and colors start their stretch. And I see how her legs are stretching and she’s stretching into a young woman, almost double digits–a milestone.
And she’s stretching into dreams while I’m still trying to stretch into mine.
And blue stretches blue forever and shadows stretch, and the sun begins to dip, and I turn and look it full in the face.
Joining the beautiful crowd over at Lisa Jo’s for five minutes of free writing on the word “stretch.” Caution: This is a no-edit zone.
And joining sweet friend Michelle for a taste of graceful summer.