Our Neighborhood LAX Field

🥍
Jason was Coleman’s lacrosse coach.
There is a park near our house that was supposed to be the lacrosse fields.
It hasn’t been.
The kids have been a scrappy band of misfits. Homeless. With no field to call their own. Wandering from place to place, wherever the city would allow them to play.

Until this spring.
Finally.
A dedicated park for the lacrosse teams.
And only a half mile from our house.

That first practice was glorious.
Coleman rode his bike and I walked to the fields.
They practiced. I got my steps. And basked in the joy of having a four-times-a-week activity practically in our backyard. Parental bliss!

Then coronavirus came and all sports and activities were cancelled.
We’ve only had that one happy practice around the corner and down the street.
A bike ride away. A thousand steps.

On the walk home I snapped this picture of Coleman. LAX backpack strapped on, pedaling home. It was such a perfect moment. Years in the making. I knew that Jason would be just as thrilled as I was.

So I texted him as I walked.
Texted the phone I still pay for. The phone with his voice message and email access and photo albums. The phone that I will not give up.

Last night I told Coleman that I wanted him to write Dad a letter for Father’s Day.
We talk about Jason all of the time. Funny stories. Things he did. Things he said. Stuff we love about him. Stuff we remember.

I was thinking of the symbolism a letter would create. The feelings written down. The memory he could read later. Some kind of big “moment” that it might generate.

Coleman responded to my request with one question, “Well, where would we send it?”

I laughed, realized the emblematic ritual I was looking to fabricate and came clean, “Good question! How about if I just keep it as a memory.”

“Sure, Mom” he said.

I think Jason get texts in heaven. And emails. And letters. And prayers and pleas and chats and conversations. I think he gets it all - even if I just tuck them away in a scrapbook somewhere. ✊🏼💙