Lonely Sticks - by Scott W. Fitzgerald

As I look around this house I see lonely sticks. There is a set of clubs that he'll never use again. Bats that will never swing again. Sticks in the yard, sticks in his room. Sticks in a case that had something to prove. Everywhere I look, the sticks look back. Pencils that will never labor, to solve arithmetic. Poles with hooks that shall never set, sticks with nets that shall never again get.The sticks are not lonely, only those who notice them. The sticks don't care, only those who study them. Sometimes I wish I were one of the lonely sticks, oblivious to the reality that I would never be the same again.But he would have wanted someone to use those sticks. Someone less fortunate, someone as gifted. Knocked around and scuffed and pounded, into the clay and green and rough. Imagine someone who can't afford the sticks, or the pride in being tough. I would not want to imagine that, and I am not alone. Because these lonely sticks are not lonely at all, they are only a loan.

Forever in our hearts Kyle.