In Memory of Hank Aaron

He walked to the plate in heavy mist; the bat had just the right feel, the wood hanging like an extension of his arm. "I'm using a wooden bat?" some part of him asked. "You got this," the voice answered. He could not see the pitcher, but that wasn't a problem; you heard and felt the pitch - a knowing that told you when you could swing away. "No catcher," he thought to himself. "This is the easy part, brother," the voice commented. He felt strong, rested, ready. There was something in the mist (a wind up) and, for a moment, he was the batter and the ball - separate and distinct but the same thing, and he knew it was coming. "Home run," the voice whispered, but it didn't need to. He was born to do this, and then it was gone (soaring up and over a fence far, far afield). And the soul, freed by its own blissful agency, spiraled powerfully on into the long, bright forever.