I reward The Dude with a romp at my old romping grounds: Roxbury Park.
It doesn’t take much to please a twenty-month toddler: a slide, a swing—and his mother’s devoted attention.
Meantime, my mother regresses to childhood.
I stroll the old baseball field, haven’t been here in forty-five years, my dream to slam one over center field no longer an issue.
I am drawn to a grassy area with trees nearby where I last saw, as an eight year-old, my girlfriend.
I’m not sure if Pam was real or imaginary (I have another vision of her in the little kids’ lunchroom at Beverly Vista Elementary); our minds, as we grow older, are just a jumble of what is real and imagined.