The Sun Returns to the Baseline

I turn my shoulder to the sun and let it fall across my collarbone, slow as a record needle dropping onto groove one. The white top is cool against my skin, the racket heavy in my hand, and yet nothing here feels like sport anymore.
Three years ago he stood at that same baseline, raking his dark hair back, laughing while the wind tangled it into my face. He said we would play until the light gave out, and I believed him with the whole reckless chest of a young woman. Then the city swallowed him whole—deadlines, distances, a quiet goodbye folded into a Tuesday evening that never quite ended.
So I came back to this court alone, not to win, but to heal. Every swing is a small exhalation; every drop shot a sentence I finally let go of. The blue surface holds my shadow like an old friend holding a coat.
And then the light shifts, warm and golden, and for one breath it looks exactly like his hand on my shoulder from behind. I smile at the camera, at the world, at myself. My teeth show, my eyes stay soft. Some wounds do not close with a bandage; they close with sunlight, repeated until the ache turns into something you can carry gently.
I am not waiting for him to return. I am playing my own match now, and the score is no longer important. The rhythm of my breath is the only music I need.

Editor: Vinyl Record