#94 Tennis in the Snow (Mary Jo Salter)

Me hace mucha gracia la conversación, esa incursión en mundos interiores. Un matrimonio, seguramente. Ese "a propos of nothing": ¿qué leía?, ¿en qué pensaba?, cómo nos pasa a todos esa atención dividida. Ella seguro leía también: ¿interrupción bienvenida?, un interés genuino, pero medio distraído—los dos con los ojos en sus libros mientras hablan, levantando la mirada en los momentos precisos, etc.

TENNIS IN THE SNOW 

You looked up from your book, and apropos 

of nothing, asked: Did I ever tell you 

I played tennis once in the snow? 

No, I said. You didn’t. Where was this? 

Tennis in the snow! you said again. 

It was . . . in Colorado. No, in Kansas. 

I was a young captain. 

Did you win? 

I don’t know. I’d play this guy at the base. 

Marty. I can see us laughing, 

slipping and sliding all over the place. 

Were tennis balls still white back then? 

(A smile from you.) No, they were yellow 

already. It was the early eighties. 

It wasn’t all that long ago. 

                   *

Oh, I said. That’s a shame. 

I’m picturing the big white flakes 

whirling around, and part of the game 

is that you guys could hardly tell 

the difference between falling snow 

and the big white fuzzy tennis ball 

or even the full moon that would seem 

to lob over the net that night, 

like a movie or in a dream. 

It was daytime, you said. Nice story, though. 

Sorry, I said. I should leave it there. 

I just wanted to be mixed up in it, 

the place where your memories are.