Divot

Short Fiction

Photo by Splash Pic on Unsplash

Mickey O’Keefe approaches his ball on the eighteenth fairway.

“Just have to finish in three and it’s over, big bro,” he says softly, stopping to set his bag down. “I’ll be the state champ.” He gazes at the pin, a mere 150 yards away. The flag waves to the west.

Mickey looks down at his white wristband. RJO 6/16/01 – 3/30/23 is etched in black Sharpie, and Semper Fidelis is written boldly beside it.

“Love you, Richie,” Mickey whispers. He reaches into his bag and selects his weapon of choice, the 7 iron. “Help me see this through, alright?”

Mickey takes a practice swing, then stands over his ball. He takes a deep breath, adjusts his feet, and glances at the green. And then he lets it fly.

A lump of sod lofts into the air as the ball takes off, soaring toward the green. It plops near the pin and rolls to within ten to fifteen feet of the cup. The spectators cheer, and a few let out shrill whistles. The loudest of all belongs to his father. Mickey smiles.

When he approaches the clump of grass, he hears his father’s voice in his head: “Remember to replace your divot.” He hears this reminder regularly, and it brings him back to earlier days and simpler times—when he and Richie were kids and they learned how to putt and chip, and how to turn the page after something bad happened. These moments ground Mickey—make him breathe easier, allow him to focus.

But when he bends down, he stops. Almost starts to cry.

The divot is shaped like a heart.

He picks it up. Inhales. Exhales. He stands with his brother and takes in the rolling green hills, the wind, and the trees.

Then he sets him down into the earth, gently putting him to rest.

Mickey picks up his bag and walks toward the green.

Thank you so much for reading “Divot” and for being here at Along the Hudson.

Happy Memorial Day to you, dear reader, and to your family. And many thanks to the brave servicemen and servicewomen who gave it all to protect our freedom.

Have a great week!