You were never just about the game.
You were a feeling.
Warm pavement under sneakers.
The soft whir of bugs orbiting yellowed bulbs, flickering overhead like they were caught in the same dream we were.
Plastic putters, scuffed balls that veered left for no reason, fiberglass dinosaurs with chipped teeth, and holes that promised par two but demanded something more sacred: patience.

My parents were there.
Really there.
Laughing, smiling, not distracted, not tired, not worried about bills.
Just present.

We passed the putters back and forth like torches in a slow relay.
Took too long at every hole. Nobody cared.
The only clock was the sky, slowly bruising toward midnight.

A radio played from old rust-welded speakers, local DJs spinning songs half-lost in static. Fleetwood Mac. Elton John. Something soft. The soundtrack of contentment.

There was no hurry. No screens. Just the glow of everything being okay.

And now, I think about that night the way people think about fossils.

Perfectly preserved.

Forever unreachable.

The course is gone.
The lights are gone.
The laughter has moved somewhere quieter.

But in some secret room in my mind - a soft, amber-lit corner with faint music and bug songs - we're all still there.
My parents are still laughing.
The ball still wobbles toward the wonky, inclined hole,
and I still believe that joy like that could last forever.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing.
To chasing par and finding something better:
a moment worth holding.

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Putt Putt - Video Love Letter

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Complete Putt-Putt Workshop

Ready-to-use facilitator materials for a complete 30–60 minute memory session.
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