Each day was like putting together a puzzle, without knowing what picture it formed. He knew he had all the pieces. He knew he would figure it out in time. But there was no guide to help him, no end goal or instructions—only daily guesses.
She watched as he turned the ball in his hand, searching for the perfect grip on that red seam as he prepared himself for the first pitch of the game. He looked up and made brief eye contact with her, as though he could sense a commonality between them.
His wife penned every heartfelt apology on his behalf until three years ago. Before the cancer took her, she made him promise that he would try.
My iron black hair and my silvery metal fist for a left hand were how the peasants knew me. As soon as I walked across the drawbridge and through the gate, everyone froze.