Never Blame the Umpire by Gene Fehler

hits me on the way down.
    Ken drops his racquet and falls to the court, laughing. He lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air. He bounces up and imitates my overhead swing. He holds his sides and laughs harder.
    “Son,” Dad says. He sees I’m laughing too andjust shakes his head.
    “No problem,” I say. “We’re still up 40 – 30. Sorry, Mama.”
    Suddenly Dad is running toward our side of the court. I look back and see Mama sitting down. I know I didn’t hit her with my racquet, I would have felt it.
    “Are you okay, honey?” Dad asks.
    “Just feeling a little dizzy,” Mama says. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”
    “I think we’ve had enough for today,” Dad says. “Sixteen games, and it’s pretty hot this afternoon.”
    “Just give me a minute,” Mama says. “We’ll be able to finish the set.”
    She walks to the bench and takes a drink of water. She sits down and towels herself off.
    “We don’t have to finish,” Dad says.
    “We’ll finish this set,” Mama says firmly.
    Mama serves at 40 – 30, a good serve, and Dad’s return goes wide. We lead 5 games to 2.
    As we switch sides of the court, I see Dad talking softly to Ken.
    It’s Dad’s serve. It’s not his best serve, and I hit a hard baseline winner. “Love-fifteen,” he calls out. “Okay, Ken, let’s get this point.”
    Serving toward Mama’s court, he double faults. He hardly ever double faults.
    Mama glares at him, her hands on her hips. “Justplay the game,” she calls out.
    He serves to me, and Ken hits my return into the net. It’s Love – 40. Match point.
    I think I know what will happen next, but I hope it doesn’t.
    It does. Another double fault. The match is over.
    Mama doesn’t even look at Dad. She just grabs her drink and towel and tennis bag and heads for the car. Mama and Dad hardly ever argue or even get mad at each other, but there’s sure plenty of anger in her eyes right now.

Nineteen
dad knew
    After the tennis match last week, Mama and Dad both kept trying to out-apologize the other.
    “I’m sorry,” Dad said.
    “No,” Mama said. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I know you were just worried about me.”
    “I was,” Dad said. “But I should have known you were strong enough to finish the set.”
    “I should have known I wasn’t,” Mama said.
    And so on and so forth.
    I know now it was an important day. I have to write about it. I have to try, anyway. The blank page of my notebook stares back at me. If it could talk it would probably say, “I dare you to write a poem. I bet you can’t.”
    The trouble is, it’s right.
    I try to remember some of the things that Mr. Gallagher taught us. One thing I remember him saying is, “A poem, whether it’s a story poem or picture poem, is simply an accumulation of details. You just start writing about the things you see, the things that happen, the way you feel. Just let one thought lead into another, just the way you think them.” So I take my pen and just let the thoughts come.
     
Dad was right.
    Mama was wrong. I’m sorry, Mama, but you were.
    I wish with all my heart you weren’t.
    The cancer is making you sicker. Weaker.
    When you think no one is looking
    I see you bite your lip to try to hide your pain.
    I watch you sit to rest, more often than you ever have.
    I hear your laughter, treasure your every smile.
    I know yours are real; I have to force mine.
    I have to pretend I’m happy.
    I know you’re not giving up.
    You’ve seen other doctors, gotten other opinions.
    They all agree.
    Chemo won’t help.
    Radiation treatments won’t help.
    Surgery isn’t an option.
    Nothing is left except time. Time and hope.
    It seems as if time has wings and is carrying
    you away, Mama, far away,
    and so fast I can’t keep up.
    I don’t want you to leave my sight
    but no matter how hard I try
    I can’t figure out how to stop time.
    I can only hope it’s flying toward a miracle.
     
    I read over what I wrote. I don’t tear the page out and throw it