Poetry With Hart

When night falls, so does his mind.
The walls open like stage curtains
to play a retinue of decades past.
The day he skinned his knee
playing baseball with his friends.
The first time he heard her voice
on the operator line directing his call.
The day they first met, her arriving
early to the park with a friend
standing further away to scout him out.
Him carrying a white flower
and sandwiches, as promised.
Her thinking he was shorter
than she imagined, but still worth a shot.
I ask my grandfather for more details,
what did the sandwiches taste like?
Was it sunny that day or shrouded in clouds?
But he’s on to other scenes now.
The wedding, the war.
He leaves more details out as he goes.
The stage now an impressionist painting
awash in the colors of raising
my mother, aunts, and uncle.
The stage darkened
when my grandmother died.
The sound becomes a black violin
somber elegance as the
remaining scenes are preformed, Him
still a father, still himself
raising them alone, never remarrying.
Then the play rewinds
to show him meeting her in the park
again, then the baseball.
Always the baseball.
He still lights up
when we talk about the Red Sox.
The two things that bring light
to his mind when night falls.
Baseball and her.