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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 12, Number 1, March 2018

Brian Fitch
Springfield, Ohio, USA

The Weight of Mountains

The summer I was ten, my parents lost our home to foreclosure. The landlord hadn’t paid the mortgage with our rent money. So, the five of us, brother, sister, mom and dad, found ourselves living in a small motel room.

One day after taking dad to work, we returned to the motel and found Nanny, mom's mother, there. Mom went into the room to stuff trash bags full of our belongings, while Nanny hurried us into the car and locked the doors. Then mom stuffed black trash bags full of our things into the trunk and we left.

Nanny drove us through the Miami Valley, across the arches of the Moundsville Bridge, and into Grafton, West Virginia, until finally we reached her farm house tucked into the mountains. Late that night, I sat wide awake while brother, sister, and mom slept on a pull-out couch. I thought about mom’s promise made during the car ride, to take me back to Ohio to play ball in my all star tournaments. But I think she knew that I’d say anything to be back in Ohio, even in that motel room.

After a few days I found a baseball diamond next to Nanny's house. I'd take a bucket of balls and a bat, stand at home plate and lob up balls. Each hit made weight I was carrying diminish, and soon it was just me and an empty ball field.

crack after crack –
the surrounding mountains
seem less confining



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