and you are thinking of baseball, while I am thinking of my mother who, at exactly my age, suffered a stroke leaving her left arm useless. But you—you are lifting your chin to Jupiter or Venus and smiling a smile you don’t even know you’re smiling because in your mind the bases are loaded, someone whose name I never remember is up at bat, stance wide, elbow wagging, and I am glad you are not concerned with the nearness of fall, the diamond empty, the stadium silent and our favorite wool sweaters airing on hangers hung from the branches of the ancient viburnum— those familiar sleeves limp in the wind.