
A tender, aching prose poem about answering the small miracles before they slip away. A reflection on regret, presence, and the fragile urgency of love.

My daughter is seven, and this is her second year playing softball. Instructional league. That beautiful, chaotic mix of learning and laughing, missed catches, tiny victories, and too-big helmets. She loves it. Lives and dies with every swing, every play. And I’ve found myself just… there. Not loud. Not hovering. Just steady.Watching—just a bit back…