Trinket or Charm

Ball Hole HellI notice the fabric of incidents is woven a little too tight.  My synchronicity sensors start screaming at me: ‘Wait, this can’t be!’

I hand the photo over to Mr. Private Equity and say ‘This is why I do it.’


‘This wall.  This is a symbol.  Of why I do it.   This wall is part of the playground of the elementary school where my kid’s soccer team meets for practice.  What does it look like to you?’

‘I don’t know.  Some sorta barrier or something.’

‘Right.  It is.  It’s a dodge ball wall.  But that’s not the most interesting fact about this wall.’

If I pause too long between sentences I begin to fear the phrases coming out of my mouth are meaningless.  Just words in random order.

He looks confused and maybe even a bit threatened.  I feel the hair on the back of my neck go on end.

I ignore his twisting face and continue.

‘This wall is made of one-inch plywood.  And that hole in the middle.  It’s completely worn through.  It’s about the size of a torso of an eight-year-old child.  How many dodge ball games do you think it took to make that hole?’

He becomes agitated.   I do not give up.

‘And, my next question is, how many kids did those dodge balls wear through before making a hole like that?’

He’s now fully aware that I’m naming him as an accomplice.  I wonder if he will imagine acts of revenge later, after I’m gone.

‘That’s why I do what I do.  I’m always at war with those human traits that wear through children.’

Nothing to fear here.

‘Now, how does that stack up to what you are asking me to do?’

He leans back in his seat.  I put the photograph back into my backpack and finish my iced tea.