Bobby went to the grove of trees, dropped down on one knee to get beneath a low-hanging branch, and placed his old baseball glove on the grass with the pocket up to the darkening sky. Then he came back to the bench and sat down beside Carol again. “That’s where it belongs,” he said. “Some kid’ll just come along tomorrow and pick it up, you know that, don’t you?” She laughed and wiped her eyes. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Or maybe it’ll be gone. Back to wherever it came from.” As the day’s last pink faded to ash, Carol put her head on Bobby’s shoulder and he put an arm around her. They sat that way
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