Making It Back Home

Three Rose of Sharon shrubs stood in a line,

deep pink, lavender, and frilly white with delicate pink edges.

They were a ribbon of softness

between the prison-like, wire batting cage

where the Little Leaguers practiced their swings

and the whirling dust of the ball field where they played their games.

Younger brothers and sisters of the players

liked to smell and pick the blooms

while waiting for the games to end.

Small bouquets of flowers were left discarded and forgotten

on the grass under the pine trees when the last out was called.

Mothers came early to set their folding chairs next to the shrubs.

The prime spot that they all wanted.

For shade?   A little, yes, but it was something more.

They wanted to be in their midst, 

to embrace their muted pastel colors 

to revel in their frills and blatant femininity,

while sipping iced tea or diet Pepsi

and shading their eyes to watch the flight 

of a ball smacked high and long.

The shrubs were a sanctuary next to the ball field.

A safe haven, a retreat, a place that breathed peace into the air.

In the midst of the over-exuberant Dads yelling at the umpire,

and boys with uniforms stained with sweat and the dust of the slide

from trying to make it back home, 

(Isn't that what we all want to do?

Make it back home again?)

There among the disappointment and sad faces of little boys

who missed the ball with every swing of their bats

or who couldn't catch a pop-up to save their lives

let alone help out their team,

In the midst of all this, the flower-covered shrubs

were like a promise that life would not always be hard.

Sometimes there will be whirls of color to cheer us

fans of green to cool us--soft ruffles and flounces

to buffer us, shelter us, comfort us, give us peace.

Perhaps they will even take us back home again.

(Isn't that what we all want to do?

Make it back home again?)

Home, back to the Rose of Sharon of our youth--

the one next to Grandma's front porch with the swing on it.

The one where you sat next to her and listened to her stories

while the two of you shelled peas,

scooping the long line of little green spheres 

into the stainless steel mixing bowl

and the peas rained into it,

ping, ping, ping, ping, and you loved the sound of it.

It made music with the creak of the swing

and the sweet lull of the music in Grandma's voice

even though she wasn't singing, just talking.

And you knew she would always love you

and she always did.

Three Rose of Sharon bushes stood in a line

a ribbon of softness taking me home.