I tell my son to go out for a pass,

his pattern curving hesitantly to the left.

Upon release, the ball spins upward and,

as he glances into the setting sun to find it,

it floats perfectly down into arms already celebrating.

As he runs toward the trees, my mind blinks

back to the field of my childhood front yard, Dad

lofting passes I couldn’t quite catch, then suddenly

forward to when my son would veer steadily away,

out of the range of my arms.