Every time she watches her son, the pitcher, playing sharp and focused on that old field of wavy sand and marshmallow bases, she remembers that night in '87 when she spent some time with another pitcher, intensely playing hard ball under silver spider webbed bleachers near a gleaming harvest-mooned infield spread with shine and grit.
When her son kisses her goodbye after the game and walks away swaying against a hippy fresh brunette whose ripe lips pucker like sweet caramel apples, a reverie caresses her 'round the shoulders like a bunting and she savors, for a moment, the moment, until it trips her eyes wide at thoughts of her thirty-four-year-old self, holding a caramel-appley grandbaby.