Third to Home

I can still feel the hot chili in the less-than-paper-thin Frito‘s bag at the ball­park as a kid. Frito Pie is what hap­pened after play­ing in the game.

Recipe
Canned chili, warmed, one ladle‘s worth
Small bag Frito‘s, bag cut lenth­wise
Add chili
Serve with white paper nap­kin and lit­tle white spoon
Delight.

Dur­ing the game the gig was to put as much bub­ble gum in my mouth as pos­si­ble while yelling “bat­ter bat­ter bat­ter bat­ter batter…swing!” The sun set warm and I can‘t remem­ber now if I won or lost any of those games. I just played.

Peo­ple who have been to death‘s door say that when we die we see a light and peo­ple flood back into our brains and mem­o­ries jum­ble back, maybe like a tsunami. All those cells hold­ing those mem­o­ries unload all at once, one last Pollack-esque mural of every­thing. Mem­o­ries are a lit­tle bit of dying, a lit­tle bit of the end. They are yesterday‘s news. When I was young I was not remem­ber­ing any­thing. I was doing the liv­ing. I keep going back in this writ­ing place because I am return­ing for that kid at the ball park, liv­ing now the best way I can, know­ing every­thing I know and doing it any­way. It wont’ be, can‘t be, the same as then. I am com­ing back with mem­ory, for one. Also, I don‘t want to go back in a non-conscious way. I want to be there for the sec­ond time and, as Eliot says, know it for the first time.
I am on this jour­ney to my heart. Mem­ory, now, is the road I am trav­el­ing.
Tonight Rose asked me if I am ready to have my heart walk­ing around out­side of me when Aidan comes. I need to know that heart so I know it when I see it out there, so I know him when I see him round­ing third, coming home.