Summer

Sitting under a deep blue sky where the sun is rising, orange and pulsing, I find myself surrounded by a cloister of evergreens in the silence of seven in the morning. Nearby, I have discovered a hummingbird’s nest. When I am attentive, I can hear the buzz and whirl of her tiny wings. She darts back and forth through the leaves with a crazy geometry, and sometimes hangs suspended in the air like a question on invisible threads. Who is this unknown puppeteer?

Down here on the ground restless chipmunks forage through fall’s leaves by the barbeque standing cool in the summer sun. Suddenly, the white electric sound of a cicada fills the atmosphere, and then fades and merges back into the stillness of the morning. The air is fragrant with dew and dark green. Patches of sunlight filter down through the trees and collect on the pathway leading out of the cottage. In the distance, I can hear the soft breathing of waves rising on white sands and falling back again.

Last night, my wife Alex and I took a walk. It was late and the evening cool. It wasn’t completely dark when we descended down to the beach and as we stretched out a yellow blanket on the sand, we watched the iridescent pastels of the sunset fade to night. I smoked silently, as the stars appeared; an upside down bowl around us. The lake became still, and the lights from the cottages around us seemed to hover together like a secret tribal meeting. We owned the beach.

Planes crossed the night sky, their electric eyes winking down from above. And we counted the satellites that roamed around up there, appearing and disappearing through the starry night. With the help of a small flashlight, Alex and I consulted the star map from a National Geographic from 2003 that we found in a drawer. It was difficult finding our way through the haze of stars all milky and bright, but we managed to find the Alpha Corona Borealis easily enough, stretched out directly above our heads. We searched for some other constellations, and then we folded the map up and just lied down on our backs staring into that awesome immensity.

“A satellite,” I said, pointing to a specific spot in the sky.

“Where? Oh, I see it now.”

“Look, a shooting star!” But when I turned to see where he finger was pointing, it was already gone. Vanished. I wondered how many people on this earth had seen it besides her.

It was cold on the beach, and even though the water was still warm from the day’s sun we decided against a midnight swim. So we turned our attention back to the sky. It’s funny how all those stars can make you feel insignificant. So many things, which seem important, just fall away into nothingness against that white speckled canvas. I remembered I read somewhere once that so many of the stars that we are able to see are actually no longer there. They’re gone, and how it took an unfathomable length of time for that light to get to us and essentially, we are looking at the ghosts of dead stars still hanging there.

Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. (King James Bible)

Lying there, absorbing the cold sand into our bodies, Alex and I contemplated swimming again.

We passed a mason jar filled with hot and sugary mint tea back and forth. I wondered if this night would be something memorable–one that could perhaps outshine many other evenings when one opens up to all that grandeur and silence. When it cuts right into you and leaves its mark.

Alex yawned, and inevitably so did I. She placed her hand on my shoulder and in a whisper asked: “Are you cold. Do you want to go back up to the house?” Isn’t it funny how our voices grow quieter at times like these? Would words released at a regular volume put a stain on that enveloping silence and puncture the mystery of it? Would God suddenly appear in the sky with a loud thunderclap, and like an angry parent, tell us “to keep it down!”

“Yeah, let’s go back up.” I said, brushing the sand off my swimming shorts. We collected out towels, the yellow blanket, and the half-empty mason jar. We slowly made our way up the sandy hill and reclaimed our shoes at the top. The road stood empty, beckoning with trees dark against the sky looming up large on both sides. A light from a cottage nearby illuminated the forest like a large pulsating heart. Eventually, through the darkness, we found our way back onto the small laneway leading to the cottage.

Alex had left some lights on, and soon it felt that we hadn’t left. A record skipping, a puzzle half-completed on the floor by the fireplace, and the dinner dishes stacked neatly beside the sink. We put our stuff on the kitchen table, collected a bag of chips, a Rice Krispy square, and made our way upstairs to bed. We watched a couple of episodes of “In Treatment” and I grew tired, turned off the light and went to sleep. The last words I heard: “I’m going to watch one more episode.” She was addicted. For the last three evenings, she pulled out Season Two; a four disc set, and watched every episode on the DVD, before finally settling into the blankets to fall asleep.

In the morning, I awoke early and leaving her in bed, I went downstairs to make coffee and sit with the birds and my new chipmunk friends who were looking for a fresh handout of peanuts. I poured myself a large cup, and gathered up my notebook and pen. Sitting down on an old weathered plastic lawn chair, I began to write.

5 responses

  1. Pingback: Summer | art cyberpress

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