The Long Wait

The neighborhood was made up of duplexes, lots of them. It was a decent military neighborhood, filled to the brim with tons of Army brats. Our tiny houses and patchwork roads were there for our sole entertainment, or so we all believed. The front yards were filled with fallen bikes, make-shift box forts, and hand-me-down basketball hoops. A child’s paradise could be found along those winding, overly crowded streets. But heaven was to be found around back: For somewhere near the middle of the neighborhood, squared in between the backyards of six duplexes, lay a child’s best friend. There, just beyond the tiny yards of fenced in dogs, there was a large playground.

School had just ended, and the weekend begun. Oh how those weekends were cherished by kids, and dreaded by their parents. The playground was brimming with kids three or four, some even five years older than me. I was nine, and thanks to my brothers, I was the littlest big kid in town. Because I had three of the oldest and biggest kids in the neighborhood as brothers, I was also the newest and youngest member on the homemade Army Brat baseball field. I was so excited that I couldn’t even stand still.

Two of my brothers, Michael and Jonathan, were on bases. They were thirteen. If it hadn’t been for the brightly colored soda cans and oddly crafted poles, no one would have been able to tell they were bases at all. In fact, to an untrained eye, it still would have been a rather confusing sight. Christopher, a twelve-year-old and the second youngest child in my family, was ready to take his swing. I was up next, only moments away from taking my very first swing, despite the fact that the game was near over. No one wants a nine year old girl to ruin the big kid’s game after all. I stepped closer to my older brother, more then ready to play.

It was extremely hot, though whether it was because of the Georgia heat in October or because of my constant hopping about and fidgeting, I may never know. Regardless, my dark brown hair clung to my neck as my bangs fell lifelessly on my forehead, my cheeks growing pinker with every hop. The aroma of steak, potatoes, and corn floated from our house, causing me to turn. The smell was followed by similarly pleasant ones as all the housewives began to beckon their children with the temptation of home cooked food.

Again, I inched forward. Christopher was practicing his swing. Apparently the pitcher wasn’t sure what he was doing, because he and another player were just standing there on the four inch tall rock. Meanwhile Michael was fighting with the guy guarding the base. Jonathan seemed to be contemplating whether to make a dash for the next base amid the distraction. The pitcher finally got ready to throw, and the other player stormed off. I seem to recall wondering if those two were also brothers.

Christopher stepped back to the plate, and I watched in bright eyed wonder as he dug his shoes into the dirt. He’d hit it, I knew he would, he was the greatest ever. I leaned forward to watch as the pitcher released the ball. It flew gracefully to Christopher, who boldly smashed it back, then released the bat. I saw a grin flash on his face as he raced toward first base.

That's when I saw it, the bat was flying through the air. It was heading for me. I didn’t have time to react, I froze, my eyes growing wide. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jonathan stop mid-run, causing Michael to come crashing into him. There was a sharp pain, and a bright red flooded my sight. Suddenly it all went black.

Eleven Years Later

I shut the car door softly as I step onto the soft, dewy green grass. It’s been ten, almost eleven years since I’ve seen this little duplex. Looking at it, I’m amazed mom ever managed to handle four kids constantly running about screaming in there. I make my way around the buildings, stepping into the playground. It also doesn’t seem nearly so big anymore. Turning around I stop to stare at my old home. Looking carefully I can still see a few tiny spots on our cement patio where the blood refused to come off, and remains there to this day. Turning around once more, my hand slides just below my eyebrow to gently feel the scar my memories softly cling to.

I step quietly into the spot where it happened, it seems like a distant dream. I lift my junior bat above my shoulder, surprised at how light and small it is. I haven’t touched it since that day. I drop my gaze to the grass, close my eyes, and remember. My name is Emily Sears, and I’m just a normal teenage girl, who, to this very day, is still waiting to take her first swing.