Decades ago, like a bouncing basketball, we seniors dribbled
our personal embryo of existence onto the court of life. It wasn’t long,
though, before we realized it didn’t matter how high our ball bounced; it was
the “swish” that counted.
However, we learned life is not always a “swish,” and we had
to rebound. Rebounding meant chasing our ball of being after it’s missed its
mark. We needed to have it before we could dribble through the myriad of ruses
life employed to take it away from us.
Furthermore, time and experience taught us when we played
within the rules of our contest of survival the more rebounds came our way and
our drives led to lay ups.
Now retired, we mentally replay game films from our championship
trophy days.
They include pictures of our personal coaches who sired us
with the traits of champions, and snapshots of those we taught how to rebound.
We anticipate the arrival of future grand-reserves, who’ll
be trained as we trained and were trained.
The process of learning to rebound
transcends each new generation.
We lean back into the comfortable folds of our favorite
recliner and snuggle within the warmth from the built-in heat pad.
“Ah, yes.”
Our warm smile winks within our well-earned wrinkles. We
recall game winning rebounds; those that were tough to chase down and hold on
to.
We gaze across the room at professional photography; the
room fills with the subject’s presence.
We delve into archives and recall riding home in the team
bus, after a special victory.
Even though our game ball doesn’t bounce as high as it once
did, we can still resurrect special rebounds and swishes.
Life: no one gets out alive, but the thrill of dribbling
through ancient mazes to where we are now makes it all worth it.
Amen, brother and sister, Amen.
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