A Bare Dirt Court

To My Dear Old Friend Jonathan.........

It's hard to forget your name,

My friends have it too, so then it's easier to think of you.

Memories of being on that dirt court, being so short.

Your height shooting for the sky, with a ball aiming for the goal.

I helped pick up what dropped and brought it back to you,

saying thank you, you would shoot it again,

round about till lunches end.

It was a tradition with you, every day, at the dirt court.

One day, mom took sister and me to the pond, where we normally caught tadpoles and frogs all day long.

But wait, where was mom?

She sat at the corner,

She wasn't laughing...then,

She started crying,

What was wrong we had asked?

I never thought I would hear the news of you threw my own mother's tears.

We held a gathering at school for you,

We stood in a circle,

and we saw your sisters tears.

I never got to know her well, I never got to tell you how I felt.

After the ceremony,

I told a lady and some friends about what used to happen on that dirt court,

and after,

it was left bare.

After a few years I grew,

So tall, in just a few.

I wondered when a ball hit the floor on a court, if you ever saw me as a brat or a girl?

Maybe if you saw me as a brat, your mannerisms wouldn't have been so polite, so kind.

To someone lost so small, one tradition on that bare court always stayed in my mind.

Now when I look up at the sky and see a slight opening in the clouds,

I wonder if your there,

watching from afar.

Our tradition is safe,

I have kept it in my heart so that when a ball is in my embrace,

it opens up and makes me want to toss it up to you,

when I shoot for that distant hoop.

Thank You Jonathan,

For letting me help you,

On those bright sunny days,

with a bare, dirt court outside,

Lifting a big orange ball to your eyes.