A casual Sunday, in the midst of summer,

Tee time was set for ten.

Warm-ups were as per usual,

Slice right, hook left, again and again.

But this was a good day.

After all, what better way,

To live and laugh of memories past,

Than to strike a ball upon the grass,

And have it head straight to the cup,

Or the woods, the way I mess up.

But, today was not about winning,

It was about playing the round,

And not persevering in idle quips,

But enjoying the simple sound,

Of wind through the leaves,

And birds in the trees,

And the ball, as it falls...

In the cup!

Nice putt, Dad.

I wish I could have said that,

One last time.