A poem: ‘Tennis ball’

Thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk…

The rhythmic sound of a tennis ball travels up from the court around the corner through the open windows to the bedroom. I think of you, playing on Saturday nights with your brother. The way you look after him. The way he must feel your arm around him when you call to check on him.

I think of the time you spent here. The way it felt so natural and calm and tingly to be with you. No matter how many times I’ve washed the sheets and aired the bedding, the room still smells of you.