My
son’s very graceful; he has perfect balance.
He’s
not competitive, like my sister’s daughter.
Day
and night, she’s always practicing.
Today,
it’s hitting softballs into the copper beech,
retrieving
them, hitting them again.
After
a while, no one even watches her.
If
she were any stronger, the tree would be bald.
My
son won’t play with her; he won’t even ride bicycles with her.
She
accepts that; she’s used to playing by herself.
The
way she sees it, it isn’t personal:
whoever
won’t play doesn’t like losing.
It’s
not that my son’s inept, that he doesn’t do things well.
I’ve
watched him race: he’s natural, effortless—
right
from the first, he takes the lead.
And
then he stops. It’s as though he was born rejecting
the
solitude of the victor.
My
sister’s daughter doesn’t have that problem.
She
may as well be first; she’s already alone.