By the time I was five years-old, I had memorized 50 poems. That’s also when I had written my first poem/song – something along the lines of birds singing or some crap like that. Anyways, my mom has a box in which she keeps all of the poems I have written since then (I was a poetry nerd, especially in middle school). So for this Mother’s Day, I thought I’d write her a new one to add to her collection.
It’s better to go down swinging than looking.
So “swing away”, she says.
Even though there’s butterflies in my stomach,
I can see the pitch coming in my head.
It’s a perfect one, thrown just for me.
A loud crack of the bat is heard.
Before I know it, a second goes by.
And suddenly, I’m on first.
I didn’t hit a huge home run,
But I don’t want to stop to rest.
So I round the bag instead of running through,
And my skills are put to the test.
I’m even further from her now
As I run towards second base.
There’s someone there trying to tag me out,
But I slide under, so I’m safe.
When I think there’s time to wipe off the dirt,
Another batter is at the plate.
So whether or not I’m ready to go,
It’s not an option to stay.
Part of me wants to return to her
And sit under a blanket in the stands.
However, I know her eyes are on me
And it’s like she’s holding my hand.
I refocus on the pitcher,
As they plot to throw me out.
And I take a big lead away from second,
Since risk is what this is about.
The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand,
And that’s my cue to go.
I’ve almost made it around the diamond.
Time is racing, yet going slow.
The crowd is starting to go wild,
And I’m deafened by the sound.
I hear tons of voices chanting my name,
But hers is the only one that counts.
Even though she’s watching,
I’m standing on third alone.
But when I win this game and make her proud,
That’s when I’ll be home.