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Billy left for a little league game. I was coming later with Mom.
Dad was out of town on business.
We got the call before we left the house.
An emergency. Mom left me at the neighbors, ran out crying.

She met the ambulance at the hospital.
Billy was pronounced dead upon arrival.
They had not done it at the field, not wanting to frighten Mark.
Mark was Billy’s best friend; he had swung the bat.

Apparently Billy had leaned his head forward at that second.
Right behind Mark’s bat. He got smacked soundly in the skull.
Two doctors and a nurse came running immediately from the stands.
They pretended he was alive, for Mark’s sake, and for the other Little Leaguers.

Billy and I were a year and a half apart; I did not know kids could die.
Until one did, my brother, my best friend, my comrade in everything.
I did not hear from him for years, until I did. He came to me in my dreams.
Told me everything was okay; he had found the best prize of all.

We had always fought over the prize in the crackerjack box.
He did not visit me again until I was pregnant with my son.
He told me that everything would be fine; he was my son’s guardian.
My husband suggested the name William; nickname Billy, of course.

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