The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
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Death-Loss


Heard of him we have

One form or another

Not yet?, a promise in waiting

Now more than ever, counting in the thousands

An angel to a few

The devil to most


It plucks the loved ones at will

It pardons not the cherished

Nor does it spare the young

A fondness for the old

All races entertained

Wealthy or poor alike, an audience it offers

Discrimination is absent in langue


Possess it does, icy cold hands at best

It grabs at will, robs day or night

It fears not the mob

Grab in troves at will; if implored by the mass shooter, the impaired driver, the irate forest fire, the natural disaster, unbridled infections, just a few to name

Bold it is, some balls it has

Timid not I grant


A few can see it coming

Others barely aware, till their name is pulled, from the lottery basket of life

As such timely for some, untimely for most

Either way is a loss, too painful to bear

Attempt to hinder the inexorable encounter, we strive each day anew

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