The boys were told to wear pink socks for Sunday's game, Coach's nod
to the mothers who'd come to the field that afternoon in a line of carpools.
I was there, too, not their mother, exactly, but something in between.
Or nearly. Or almost. The card store comes up empty for such things,
the language strange on the not-quite-in-laws’ tongues. Flowers are thrust
on the one who made them, these spindly, sweet ones running zigzags in the sun
toward a speckled ball. But we are there too, rising early to make pancakes,
set the table, slice fruit, make meaning out of math. We are pacing ourselves
down the long stretch, the goal fixed but elusive, the turf strange and slippery,
the wind knocking on our backs and whispering, “C’mon. You’re one of us.”