A ball is quite a plaything. Its round shape makes it virtually independent of the ground on which it touches, and it moves like the dickens when motivated by a deliberate nudge. Of course, children instinctively understand this appreciation, where only a jaded adult intellectualizes the apparent simplicity.

     Watching Mindy playing with the ball, I couldn’t help but feel like a kid again — hoping she would share in the delight. Yes, I felt the urge to abandon my years and join her on the cool grass, kicking the rubber orb with my barefoot and laughing joyfully. Yet, I chose not to. Why? I couldn’t begin to legitimize my reasoning.

     All I can say is, in that moment of joyful epiphany, I also sensed an overwhelming sadness. Born of aging regrets, I knew my time had come and gone; gone like air across a withering oasis. Here on this lush field, my granddaughter celebrated her moment in the sun. Perhaps, by pretending I was her age, I believed I would be making a mockery of both her youthful energy and my betrayed vigor.

     So, I resigned myself to merely observing, staying now, and forever apart; I once rejoiced with free abandonment.

     My loss, I guess.