a chair, entangled and overturned

Entangled

Believe it or not, that silly chair saved me.

Clay’d sent me down to clean the place up for the next batch of campers. The weekend storm made the mess worse’n usual. And that got me thinkin’ about Clay’s “weekend storm,” and how I was a worse mess’n usual, too. After I’d done the field an’ the dugouts, I walked round back and saw the battin’ cage.

I didn’t cry–not in a long time anyway. But I cried then–over that stupid chair. “Pull yourself together, Lacey. Can’t let Clay see you blubbin’.” The nettin’ was all tangled up an’ caught on that chair. It took me a while, but I got it free.

Then it hit me. It weren’t the chair.

We hadn’t spoken in eight months, not since I left with Clay, and they’d tried to stop me. But on that day long ago, while I was waitin’ for the taxi, Mom walked out to me, and in the pouring rain, too: “Lacey-Lu, if you ever need help, call us.”

“Welp,” I said to myself, “today, once Clay was busy with the new crop, I was makin’ that call.”

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What the camera saw:
entangled, as shot