Clarity. A summer evening. Darkness, the clear air—that scent of wet water from recent rain and lawn sprinklers, of wet grass. The soft hissing of a sprinkler. The soft hissing of the weak fountain sprouts in the big pool.
A full moon, big, fat, bright and silver, snowy white, pure and beautiful. So bright we don't need lamps. Walking, running, ducking under branches that we aren't tall enough for to touch our heads. Laughing. Whispering, talking, stepping over fallen things and loose bricks and random bits of litter. Making up stories.
Candles. Always candles. Candles left by someone else, a wax candle heart made by someone else. Melted wax that spell words. Moon cakes under a full moon—sweet, soft lianrong. The yolk filling that we don't want. Fireflies and bugs. Just a few nights, when there were fireflies (or was it weeks?). Cold stone benches around the pool, matching the white tiles underfoot. Crickets—coo, coo, coo. A B-note, or was it a G? Shadows, reflections, ripples in the water.
Stars are scarce, but even clouds clear away just for these nights. Every bush hides a mystery and every moon, a story.
Simple clarity. The sweet smell of wet grass and summer nights.
20 May 2014
YOU ARE READING
Grey Light
NouvellesA collection of short pieces, one-shots, character sketches, and scenes that don't belong anywhere (yet). Alternative description: Word dump for thoughts & feelings I want to get out of my head or remember forever. June 2014-2018
