I often stop here on the way home from work and spend time watching teams in the Central Park Softball League, teams with names like “Scared Hitless.” There is one team in particular that I watch so often I know the personalities like one knows the characters in a favourite sitcom. There is only one woman on the team and she is their best pitcher.
I walk over a stone bridge, past the statue of a dog, around a tree. As I crest a hill I see a great crowd of people. Many of them are running. Most, but not all, are women. Many are applauding. Most, but not all, of these are men. I am mystified, confused. But then I start to see words. “Mother.” “Daughter.” “Wife.” “Survivor.” Something catches in my throat and tears begin running down my cheeks.
I suggest that they could give her nourishment by IV. She asks “What would be the point?”