U6

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U6


Late August. Everyone’s shirts

were soaked. By rights 

the parents had worked 

enough to earn more

than a lawn chair. A storm 

building, 14 miles east 

per Layla’s dad. Elijah’s wasn’t 

there. Most of them 

still stopped the ball 

with their hands when it got

rolling too fast. Sometimes, 

mid-practice, I forget 

just what it is we’re drilling for. 

We gathered beneath the gray, 

stacked sticky hands and waited

for Elijah, who put the burned skin

of his re-membered one right

on top. We thundered.


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