Kindling

Bobby carved trenches in the sand with his toe,

Watching the dirt pile into walls on either side.

He heard the crack of a ball ahead,

The buzz of a gnat by his ear,

Felt the blinding sun beating down on his brow.

Dad shouted something,

Wrote something down on a clipboard

As Bobby traced shapes in the dirt.

Dad was once a shortstop too.

"Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.

"Keep it in front of you," he taught Bobby.

Suddenly, a sharp pressure against Bobby's right arm

Exploding into fireworks through his elbow.

Bobby crumpled,

Howling and clasping his arm.

Stern eyes landed on him.

"What did I tell you?"

Bobby choked back a whimper.

"There's no crying in baseball."

Dad frowned, but after the game,

He bought Bobby a red-white-and-blue ice pop

And told him it was their secret.

Dad could fix anything.

The dripping refrigerator,

The rattling car,

The baseball card a school bully ripped.

Dad taped over the tear and made it good as new,

Wiped Bobby's cheek

And reminded him

That crying is for girls,

And was he a girl?

Bobby shook his head so hard he saw stars.

Then dad couldn't come to many games anymore.

He was in bed a lot.

His cheeks had grown hollow.

Another dad on the team held the clipboard these days.

He didn't bring Bobby rocket-shaped ice pops.

He made him play in the outfield.

One day Mom sat Bobby down

And said, holding back a sob,

That Dad had to go away.

Bobby asked when he would come back.

The funeral was a few days later.

Mom dressed Bobby in his little black suit,

The one Dad bought for his First Communion.

She didn't put the tie on right.

Dad always did it for him.

It's a good thing Uncle Stan was there

To remind Bobby to "man up"

And be strong for Mom.

Mom lit a candle for Dad that night.

Bobby watched the flickering flame from birth 'til death,

Stared fighting back tears

Until it had burnt down to a blackened stump.

Bobby lit candles every year,

One for each year his father was gone.

What started with one candle became a chaos of forty flames

Arranged around his little house.

He went by Robert at work now.

Each year, Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat

Until it fell deeper, deeper within him.

Each year, the candles grew bigger and brighter.

He stomped on the ember in his chest until it disappeared,

Even if for just the next 365 days.

One day, Mom's phone rang into silence,

The voicemail left unopened,

The text message left unread.

And just like that,

The light in his life went out.

Bobby bought a new, black suit,

Tied his windsor knot,

And gritted his teeth through the service.

Uncle Stan wasn't around anymore,

But no one had to remind Bobby

To keep his chin up and eyes dry.

He had run out of surfaces in his apartment

For his shrine to grief,

Every table and shelf covered in drips of melted wax.

The matches had burnt calluses onto his fingers,

And a black, smoky haze spread across the ceiling.

The flames popped and crackled

And consumed the wax,

Spilling fire and brimstone all around him.

The firefighters dragged him from the blaze,

Still clutching the old mitt Dad bought him,

As the ceiling came down.

As the night faded to blue dawn,

Bobby walked through the smoking ashes,

Hoping the dams in his eyes would hold.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair,

Smearing charcoal across his face.

He fell to his knees and let the dam break.