Wheels roll
on a cool fall evening. A golden, tired sun, weak from another summer, heads to slumber behind the house. Trees, just now showing signs of wear, permit themselves to be heard. A gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. He sits quietly on the front porch, looking beyond home's shadow cast across the front yard toward Main Street. He has a clear view of life which never stops. Children enjoying precious moments of play before being called in for supper. People walking past on sidewalks. Wheels rolling in the street. His mother stands behind the screen door, her face, like stone, yet her eyes always sympathetic. As she brushes away a strand of gray hair she cries silently, lifting her other hand to her mouth hoping to catch the sound. This time she does, unlike many others late at night face down on the sofa when muffled weepings tiptoe through the stillness. It is then the other children wake, and walk closer, peering through open doorways at their mother, without understanding. She wipes away the tears, pushes the screen door open and turns to pat on the head the little girl that follows. Her job is to hold the door. Do not let it slam shut. On the wooden porch the mother steps to her son and rests her hand on his shoulder. His body becomes more fragile with every passing month. Bones beneath a pale sheet. His expression is blank, as though he were tired of seeing life. But he's only twenty-two. Behind his eyes, however, is a teenager, deprived of a future. The accident froze him at seventeen. Life for him has never moved on. It never will. Meanwhile, the sun has drifted off to sleep, and the autumn night coexists with the streetlight on the corner. A happy couple walks hand-in-hand beneath the October sky. Down the road, electric store signs flicker. In the street, leaves are stirred by a passing car. All around, others' lives go on. She lifts her hand from his shoulder and pushes him inside. The little girl is careful to close the screen door gently. Outside another car passes, unobserved from an empty porch. Wheels turn. His life stands still. (written in law school and posted today as part of Throwback Thursday) I walk slowly across these bricks,
trying to lose myself in the perfect balance that sets in every year at this time, when the sun seems to lose its heat and the winds begin to grow. And as one rises and the other falls there is a point at which all things are equal. A point when the winter winds are still children and the heat waves from earlier days have calmed to rays of gentle warmth. As certain as the cold and darkness that approach, so is this balance, this utopia that comes first, like the instant before death when the human heart is calmed by an enlightening glimpse of Heaven. In the seasons, this glimpse, this harmony, is autumn. It is a time of pumpkins and leaves, browns, reds, oranges, and the gold that Nature sprinkles over the land. It is a time that means back to school and a time that brings to mind friends from yesterday. The season makes me wish for more of the precious autumns that have been lost forever. This autumn is no different, for today I've returned to a familiar place, trying to feel the same as I did years ago when I stepped here for the first time. But I can't. As I walk across this place where the leaves pad my steps, I watch others carrying on, dreaming their dreams, smiling, loving, and enjoying the season. I stop. Even though I am home on a quiet autumn day with a baby winter wind blowing and the colored leaves bathing in golden rays, it's not the same. I weep because the autumns here are no longer mine. June and July sleep soundly now,
their slumbers well deserved. This boy made the most of their days, so they rest, having nothing more to give. August prepares to join them, though it remains awake just long enough for the boy to find a playground's empty swing. Despite his many adventures over these months it is not yet fully summer until this moment. This moment when, after lifting him up, the swing's chains set free their grip, and the world falls away. They will soon grab hold, of course, and return him, but for now he flies. He flies. He flies to that far away place to which all children look when they dream. What lies there is only for him to know. In a few short days he will be asked, "what did you do this summer?" In one moment, he flew. He soared. And he lived summer fully. The chains, as they do, grab hold and bring him back. This moment, like summer, like childhood, passes too quickly. Labor DayI see only his wet, blond hair peeking out |
AuthorJosh Durham is a lawyer, husband, dad, and an astronaut. Okay, he made that last part up, but he did go to Space Camp. Twice. Josh lives in Charlotte, NC with his wife, three kids, and a cat. Archives
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