The Magic Baseball

stared at the glossy image. Six-year-old toothless me hold-ing Mom’s hand as white waves broke on the shore behindus. A strand of dark hair blew in Mom’s face, hiding whatmight have been a small smile.I turned as Mom appeared in the doorway. “Look at this.I was so little.” I held up the picture, smiling.When Mom’s eyes found the box I had opened, confusionswept across her face. “Where did you nd that? I thoughtwe’d unpacked everything.”“It . . . was in here,” I said.She stepped into the spare room of our new apartment.We’d moved all over San Diego. From 4

Street to 10

Street

Tortilla Sun

and from Mulberry Road to Elm Road. The last place we livedwas on Paradise Place. That had a nice ring to it. Now, wewere living at 1423 M Street. “M” for

maybe

this will nallybe home.“I haven’t seen this in ages.” Her eyes danced as shetraced her long ngers over the photo. “I think you had justlost that front tooth.” She chuckled at the memory.A soft breeze crawled in through the window, ticklingmy face. That’s when I caught sight of something else inthe box.A baseball.I took the baseball from the box and rotated it in my hand.The words

because

and

magic

were written across the front.“Whose is this?”Mom looked up and yanked the ball from my grasp.“Wait. I want to look at it. What do those words mean?”I said.“I . . . It’s nothing. Help me fold up this box.”“Is it Dad’s?” I asked barely above a whisper.Mom turned to me. “I said never mind, Izzy. It’s just anold nothing.” But I knew it wasn’t a nothing. Dad died beforeI was born and Mom never wanted to talk about him. But Iimagined we were just the same. That he hated moving from