Farewell to Mo

Yankees pitcher Mariano Rivera played his final game of professional baseball Sept. 26.

The 43-year-old threw an 89-mph pitch to Tampa Bay's Yunel Escobar, who popped it up to the second baseman for the second out of the ninth inning.

Long-time teammates Derek Jeter and Andy Pettitte made their way to the mound, yelling to Rivera, "Hey! It's time to go."

Rivera smiled, the dimple in his left cheek deepening as he realizes the moment has come for him to walk off the mound one last time.

The stadium full of baseball fans cheered and applauded the Yankee as he gave his teammates an emotional embrace one-by-one, his face buried in their shoulders with only his crows' feet visible to the camera's view.

No. 42 walked off the mound, head hung low as he wiped his eyes, making his way to the first base dugout. He stopped briefly on the lush grass to wave his navy blue ballcap in a salute to the roaring fans.

Rivera made a pass through the dugout, giving hugs to all his teammates and was pushed out of the dugout, yet again, to bid farewell to Yankee Stadium.

The curious lizard's encounter with The Boy Who Lived

As I sat in the emerald grass reading Harry Potter with my brother, I noticed movement in the corner of my eye. Mosquitoes have been terrorizing the outdoors since the rain swept in, so I assumed it was another blood sucker on the hunt.

I was in the middle of describing Harry and Dudley's encounter with a Dementor when I shifted positions to get the sinking sun beams out of my eyes. I glanced up to find a wiry, green lizard on the stone. 

It was positioned downward, with its head slightly cocked to the side and tail flicking in quick spurts every few seconds. It seemed the reptilian creature had been listening to me read aloud the tales of The Boy Who Lived. 

I stared at it for awhile. It stared back, stock-still as if waiting for me to continue. When I didn't, it made a quick motion from side to side, debating which direction to move onward, I assume. Then it scurried away into the grass, disappearing from view.

I stared at the place I last saw the slender being and a whiny, hum filled my ear. My arm shot up to shoo away the mosquito, and I looked back down to find my place and continue the adventures of the Order of the Phoenix. 

Just a small-town girl

Since I could remember my family and I have always vacationed in San Antonio for the summer. Although it's only four hours away and we never really spent more than three days there, it was something I looked forward to every year.

I think because I grew up in a town where main street is the only street, San Antonio always seemed so magical to me. So it was a no-brainer that I decided to celebrate my 21st birthday there.

During our stay, we encountered many interesting situations, my friends and I. From a sassy piano man replacing vulgar lyrics to a 4 Non Blondes song to a three-part tour of Ripley's Believe It Or Not, our weekend away in the city was eventful to say the least.

We kept hearing that the Valley had a doom and gloom feel with heavy rains and dark skies. Meanwhile, we were poolside, soaking up the rays and clinking our glasses together with a toast every round.

The city was in an endless chatter and forever stuck in fast forward, with the sun and moon as the only distinction between day and night. People of all ethnicities roamed the sidewalks, standing out on their own, yet seeming to fit in with perfection.

Music bumped on every turn and each building glowed and twinkled, serving as the night lights of the city that never seems to sleep.

It's not an experience I was used to from my orchard-side home in the Valley, but it's one I fell in love with.

Needless to say, I was saddened to see it all come to an end as I pulled up in my driveway that had mirrors of water scattered throughout.

I stood in my carport, waving goodbye to my friends and watching the glow of their break lights slowly disappear.

All was silent, except the laughter and memories echoing in my head.

I sighed and looked up at the silent, dark cloak over my head, realizing I had one thing the city could never provide. No matter how beautiful it is, nothing beats the night sky from the yard of a country home.

      

 

The cemetery community

My grandma, aunt and brother are buried at the Heavenly Grace Memorial Park in La Feria.

Grandma passed on two years ago, my aunt last October and my brother three months ago. Aunty and Grandma are buried right next to each other, but my brother is some ways away.

There's an old married couple I see there often. I noticed them when I first started visiting my grandma. They pull up in their beat-up, white, single-cab Ford, take out their folding chairs from the bed and sit opposite each other, slightly angled towards the headstone.

I'm not sure if they sit in silence or talk softly; they're a little too far to hear. I don't know their names, but the owner of the site says their son passed away some time ago. Sometimes we watch them.

"There's that couple again," my dad says. "Visiting their son."

They sit for hours. I know because sometimes I sit for hours.

Because my aunt is buried next to my grandma, we didn't exactly have to move locations when visiting. But I'm sure they noticed we began to visit another person. They watch us too.  

When I went to visit my brother the other day, I noticed them watching me. I was no longer going to the same location I had been for two years. Someone new moved into the cemetery community.

There are other regulars, of course. The father and son who visit the mausoleum. The woman who visits the heart-shaped stone next to the far palm tree. The headstone with the name Fredo, who always has such beautiful decorations, but I never see who puts them there.

None of us ever acknowledge each other. But it occurred to me the other day that we are in our own way a community. We're all neighbors and we all notice when someone new moves in on the block.