There are times that I do write about...or for...the people I love. This is one such example.
We stood on the cool slate patio, lulling in the shadow of the great oak holding court in the backyard. The tiger lilies stood tall, cautioning all who approached the aged, untidy greenhouse like bright orange construction cones. We spun and twirled, waiting as all impatient children do. I remember the sun was bright and warm on our shoulders and cheeks. I had to hold my arm above my eyes to block the white light that glinted of the chrome and glass, as the station wagon pulled up the driveway.
He opened the door and we ran to his open arms. When we finally let him stand up, he measured up to the regal oak. His bristly beard left the slightest sting on our rosy cheeks. He went through the typical greetings with our parents; hugs, kisses, hand shakes, some hearty laughs, and a cool drink. But we knew there was more in the car, there in the way back machine, our three big burly friends. We waited all day for this and could no longer hide our excitement. Antsy, outside that heavy car door, we danced like children that waited too long to get to the bathroom. He got the hint. Asking us to stand back, he opened the door and the three lions once quietly sleeping in the back, awoke and barreled towards us. The big black dogs, three perfect specimens of the Newfoundland
That afternoon we ran alongside the dogs. We would climb on their sturdy backs, wrap our hands in their long hair, and hug their bodies close as we rode on our loyal steeds with great pride and wildly, vivid imaginations. We explored the rock garden with our guardians at our heels, pretending we were climbing mountains with our rescue dogs, ready to plunge into the pool of green grass if one of us lost our footing. We rolled around on the ground and laid on them like pillows when we tired out.
My sister and I were three and six. We had no thoughts or plans beyond that afternoon. We just knew we were inexplicably and undeniably happy.
As it grew dark we hugged our big bears and he loaded them into their temporary pen. We blew kisses to each one and as we touched the glass we felt their hot breath. We told them we loved them, feeling that twinge of sadness at seeing them go; at seeing the day end. He picked us up individually, kissing us on the cheek and promising our next visit would be sooner rather than later. He backed out of the driveway, and in the lowlight of the evening the headlights shone so bright. I had to put my arm above my eyes to block the light. I waved goodbye. Reaching down I grabbed the hand of my little sister, who waved and blew kisses. The headlights veered to the left and then disappeared down the road.
We stood there staring down the graying driveway, thinking on the day, the dogs, our friend. But then we spotted the fluorescent flash of the lightening bugs and began our dance. Running from flash to flash, reaching and grabbing with a gentle swipe of the wrist, clasping our fingers around the bugs like a flesh made prison. We pet our captors and named each, certain we would remember them by their glow and the red perimeter of their wings.
The sky was beginning to turn from periwinkle to a deep amethyst, which was our cue to look up for the black silhouettes of the brown bats that mapped a feeding path between our house and our neighbors.’ We would raise our arms and imagine the soft fur brushing against our knuckles, their wings stirring a slight breeze that we would catch in the palms of our hands. We sang songs we made up in hopes of attracting the bats to our sweet voices, and cheered with an innocent squeal when we heard them respond with a sonic squeak, certain our efforts had paid off.
The sky folded into indigo, pin pricked with luminescent stars and planets, and as we tried our best to count each one, we made silent wishes. We put away our bikes, toys, chalk, and jump ropes, and then went inside for the night. We had our baths and once dressed in our clean pajamas, we stood in front of the air conditioner, listening to our voices take on a robotic echo.
We snuggled into our beds without a fight. My sister’s bed was in actuality a mattress on my bedroom floor, at the foot of my bed. Maybe five minutes passed before I peeled away those covers and crawled to the end of the mattress. Extending my arm, she grabbed tight to my hand. With a smile she pulled herself up and we curled up like cubs settling in for a winter’s hibernation. We would trace messages in each other's backs and palms with our tiny fingertips and giggle at silent jokes we could share with just a look. Sleep took us early that night. Dreams were dreamt deep, too deep to recall the following morning. But what dream could top that day.
We were three and six, life was simple, and we took great pleasure from simplicity.
E.A. O’Connell
No comments:
Post a Comment