Who would have thought looking at clubs and balls would make me cry. Getting ready for our garage sale tomorrow, my husband pulled out a large collection of Golf bags, one was my Mom’s.
First I saw her shoes and turned them over. She hadn’t cleaned off the mud from the last time she wore them. I’m sure she was too tired, too worn out to take the time to clean them off. A week before she died she rode in a golf cart to visit with friends, too weak to play.
I reached in and pulled out a yellow golf ball, then a pink one and finally her purple one. It had the word Hope in tiny little print, and I felt the sadness creep in. I looked them over and put them on the table beside me. I pulled out the others and turned them around and over in my hand. I saw the little flecks of dirt and knew she was the last one to hold them and place them back in that old bag at the end of the day. I picked out the ones I wanted to keep, the yellow one, the pink one and the Purple one that said Hope in tiny little print. I carried them in my cupped hands and found my way in the darkness from the garage to the house. I stood at my Altar of Hope, my eyes too wet to see clearly and gently placed her purple golf ball with the tiny word Hope there with my other things of Hope, like feathers and red Chuck Taylors, and carefully I placed the yellow one and the pink one in an old cup that said, Remember Me.