Jordan's Journey

Dear Jordan,

I was 22 when I met your mother. At the time, both of us were draped in polyester. We worked together as ushers at The Music Center and the uniforms left much to be desired in the way of fashion. Although, when it was cooler, the girls got to wear dark cloaks with crimson linings. Your mother looked beautiful in hers, like a character from one of the operas whose doors we guarded every night. I don’t need to tell you that your mother can wear just about anything and make it look stylish. But that’s not why I fell in love with her.

I’ve written you this letter because one day, many years from now, when you’re more worried about which dress to wear to the prom or whether Billy Simms looked at you during math class (he’s not good enough for you, by the way), you may not give a second thought as to how lucky you are to have the mom you do. You probably won’t have the time to sit with me and let me tell you this story. I’m sure you’ve long since determined that I’m pretty square (but lovable in a nutty professor sort of way). So I’ve written it all down for you. You may not remember all the details from when you were a sick kid and Mom gave you such great strength. You’ll want to keep this handy, maybe even re-read it the next time you’re thinking that your mother is on a mission to make your life hell. Truth is, ever since you were very small, you and your mother have butted heads. But whenever you were afraid, whenever you were hurting or feeling blue, she was the first one you ran to. I’m about to tell you why. (more…)

She let a giggle escape as she slid her fists together. I raised her elbow to line up with her ear and the giggle erupted into an outburst of laughter. Her knees went soft and she lost her stance. I looked over at her baseball coach who was laughing himself. Her laughter was infectious. It was hard to get serious with her.

“OK, Jordan, ” I said. “Let’s hit the ball out of the park.”

She had wriggled around in her outburst so much that her feet were pointing in the wrong direction. I gently turned her ankles toward the batting tee. This, of course, prompted more giggles. I steadied her by resting my palm on her back. She raised her arms with the bat against her shoulder. Her coach placed the ball on the tee. She took no time at all to swing the bat and connect. There was no power in it, but the ball flew cleanly up the middle dropping to the ground just behind the pitcher’s mound. I cheered her but quickly stopped when I noticed that she was standing there with me, both of us admiring her ball.

“Run, Jordan. Run.”

She disappeared down the first base line, helmet bobbling on her tiny head, a plume of giggles tracing her route. Jordan had scored her first base hit. (more…)