Evergreens

January 2021

The basketball court is still there, but only if you look for it. Our father staked down the post decades ago and bolted the backboard behind a wall of infant evergreens. When we were young, my brothers and I would draw out the lines with chalk on the driveway. We mustered all the strength we had to hurl the ball at regulation height. The pines were tame then - they respected our play. But whenever we missed the mark, they demanded forgiveness. Our lofted faults meant being scratched, pricked, and struck. Sometimes it would take our ball to the tallest branches for us to toss other objects to get it back. And whatever was left up there was kept until the next windy day.

Today the backboard is engulfed in evergreens. Our court is just a turnabout for our daily commute, an abandoned gymnasium left in spined shadows. Some mornings, I walk past them to check the mailbox. I can hear sharp needles rustle against the frame like greedy fingers, pulling it closer every year. There is something strange about them - as if they refuse to give it back.