|
Play-by-Play Would it surprise the young men playing softball on the hill to hear the women on the terrace admiring their bodies: The slim waist of the pitcher. The strength of the runner's legs. The torso of the catcher —rising off his knees to toss the ball back to the mound? Would it embarrass them to hear two women, sitting together after dinner, praising even their futile motions: The flex of a batter's hips before his missed swing. The wide-spread stride of a man picked off his base. The intensity on the new man's face —as he waits on deck and fans the air? Would it annoy them—the way some women take offense when men caress them with their eyes? And why should it surprise me that these women, well past sixty, haven't put aside desire but sit at ease and in pleasure, watching the young men move above the rose garden— where the marble Naiads pose and yawn in their fountain? Who better than these women (with their sweaters draped across their shoulders, their perspectives honed from years of lovers) to recognize the beauty that would otherwise go unnoticed on this hill? And will it compromise their pleasure, if I sit down at their table: to listen to the play-by-play and see it through their eyes? Would it distract the young men—if they realized that three women laughing softly on the terrace above closed books and half-filled wine glasses are moving beside them on the field? Would they want to know how they've been held to the light—till some motion or expression showed the unsuspected loveliness in a common shape or face? Wouldn't they have liked to see how they looked down there— as they stood for a moment at the plate— bathed in the light of perfect expectation —before their shadows lengthened. Before they walked together up the darkened hill— so beautiful they would not have recognized themselves. – Joan Murray from Looking for the Parade |