The Walk
by Robin
If I were to believe in a
god at any time, it would be now, as I breathe deeply of the evening air and
look around with wide open eyes, so as not to miss anything.
Beauty. Sheer beauty.
The sky darkens slowly, until the whole thing looks like a giant bowl with
little white stars it in. Lighter around the rim, and a deep, deep blue in the
centre, it makes me wish I still took pottery lessons. If I did, I would make a
bowl like this.
Ontario summers are so beautiful. I reflect on the truth of the statement, arms
swinging, walking oh-so-very slowly down the street.
The houses look beautiful in the almost-night, the darkness hiding the messes in
the front yard, allowing us to forget for a while the wild and natural things
which once grew here. Porch lights turn on as the darkness grows, until the
whole street is a runway of tiny, welcoming little lights.
Every once and a while, there is a house with no lights on at all. Is the family
out, on vacation perhaps? Or are they all fast asleep, tired by their day?
I continue walking, and my attention is caught by my shadow. I walk past a
streetlight, watching it shrink, until, finally, it starts to grow, until I am
ten feet tall. And then I near another streetlight, and the process begins all
over again. Only in my shadow will I ever be this tall.
The summer breeze slides over my face, through my hair, and I lean my head back,
smiling. It smells like... I breathe it in through my nose. Like summer, and
Ontario and... childhood. That smell reminds me of childhood. Nothing definite,
but shapes and sounds that I felt and heard long, long ago.
It reminds me of camp, and breakfasts and baths and my mother. I still long for
her, you know. Not for her, so much as my perception of her. I long for a time
when she could make everything right. I long for when I could run to her when I
had troubles and, even if she couldn’t fix them the way *I* wanted it, she
made it not matter. I want to be a child again. To run to her and have her pick
me up and hug me.
I think some people never get over their family-centric view of things. That
even when they’re living away from home and don't want to feel like they need
their family to survive, somewhere, deep down, there is a strange and
unexplained belief that once they get to their mom, once they’re safe in her
arms, she’ll make it all better, and all the bad stuff will go away.
No matter how much logic they use on themselves, no matter how long they spend
saying it’s not true, even if, possibly, their parents are the cause of much
of the badness, this silly and completely irrational belief lives on.
It lives somewhere in me, too
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Oh god, not more copywrite thingies... someone kill me,
please. And note that this belongs to me :)