Bird of Summer

This was inspired by a song that I really adore. . .

The sun shone down hot and strong, glittering on the surface of the pond. Small children screamed and squealed in joy, running around the playground in the hot air. Somewhere a swallow sang. Honeysuckle enfolded me in its thick warm scent, and I sat on the bench, my hand poised over my sketchbook, waiting, waiting for an interesting subject, inspiration to strike, something, anything, because I'd been sitting here for the last hour, and though beauty was everywhere, I didn't see one thing I was interested in sketching. It was then he walking into my life, a book in his hand and an easy smile on his face. Like summer, his face was warm and probably ten years older than me. When he asked to share the bench with me, I said of course, moving over to make room.

"You're an artist," his inflection made it a question and I glanced down at the blank page sheepishly, only to be startled when I lifted my eyes to his incredibly green eyes. Like sunlight through thick green foliage, they smiled and crinkled happily at me. Maybe 20 years.

"Not a very good one," I answered, recovering quickly. He smiled, his book held loosely in his hands, his eyes surveying the park.

"Do you have a name," he asked suddenly.

"Bridget," I answered.

"John," he answered. I sat there nodding for a few minutes.

"Well, I'm an artist, and you are. . ." I let that statement trail off, my hand working over the blank sheet of paper as though possessed. He gave a deep, golden laugh and I found myself flushing at the sound.

"Retired," he laughed. 30 years then.

"In a way," he added. I smiled at him, extremely aware of the pleasure racing through my body as he smiled back at me. He looked down at my sketchpad, his green eyes warm. I wanted to swim in them.

"You're very good," he remarked. I looked down, then realized I'd been drawing his kind face.

"I hope this is okay," I said, my voice sounding small and slightly breathless. 

"Fine with me . . . and I like red hair," he answered. My hand flew up to run through my long, unruly locks, and I blushed again.

He invited me to coffee, I invited him home and so our affair began. We would spend our days lost in the outdoors, by the lake or at the park. Our kisses lost by secluded stands of blackberries, passion finding us drenched in the thick, luscious scent of honeysuckle, all the while John reminding me that he was only here for the summer. But on nights with windows open, breezes rushing through the apartment, my cheeks red as I sought out his hear, I could imagine that this could go on forever.

That summer glimmers in my mind, drenched in the bright colors of petunias planted in my window boxes, nights spent by the lake, feasting on sandwiches, fruits and vegetables, strawberry juice running down our chins, the breeze carrying our laughter elsewhere.

Then came cooler days, and our sweet days became tinged with slight bitterness as school soon approached, and John started to make arrangements for elsewhere.

"I could ask you to come with me," he remarked on one of those last days, as we sat on the lake's pier, him a fishing pole in hand, me stretched out, soaking up the last of the summer sun.

"You know what I would say, John," I replied. There was a long, heavy silence, then,

"Yes, I suppose I do."

Leaves tossed in the school yard as I quickly made my way across the parking lot, my hands weighed down by bags filled with school supplies. It was minutes before I stood in my class room, the thick scent of paints and crayons assaulting my nostrils. I stowed the supplies away in a cabinet. I set up supplies at each table, ready for nine o clock when my first roomful of students would appear, eager fro a reprieve from the academic drudgery of their day. I smiled as I layed out stacks of paper, then realized I needed more. I went to my desk, pulling out a drawer that was deep, where I liked to keep paper because it was just so perfect for it. There, laying on top of stacks of colored paper, was my sketchbook. I pulled it out, laying it on my desk. I didn't get as much time to sketch during the school year, and I opened the book, flipping through the pages until i found one that caused my breath to catch. I gazed at it for a long moment, then sat down slowly, pulling out a bright set of colored pencils, thinking about how green those eyes should be.

I watched as the students' heads bent over their work, painting so very carefully. Every once in a while one of those little heads would lift and look hopefully outside where snow swirled in the wind. I glanced outside myself, pulling my sweater closer around my body as I thought about the trek home later today. I wandered to the back of the room, where my red plaid coat hung. It was ugly, and patched, but it was warm and comfortable and I loved it. I pulled out a flimsy piece of thin cardboard from one of the pockets, carried it back to my desk. I sank down into the chair and gazed at the sparkling ocean depicted on that thin piece of cardboard. It was beautiful, and I turned over the postcard to see the quick words scrawled across the back, letting me know he was well, he hoped I was too. I sighed, my nose again filled with the warm sun drenched scent of summer. Those long days once again glimmered before me, and for a few moments I was there again. My eyes flew open, remembering where I was. My gaze flicked to the snow beyond the window, realizing that the lake was freezing, only die hard runners were in the park, and those stands of blackberries and honeysuckle were nothing but a collection of thick brown ropes clinging to larger trees, waiting. I sighed once again, then stood ready to tell the class it was time to wrap up.

"Oh, but Miss Bridget," the children cried. 

"No, it's time to go in," I called out. They stomped past those first few daffodils of spring, sulky about having to go back inside. I was resistant to it as well, overjoyed as I was that the cold hand of winter had released us. Daffodils pushed out through the wet, muddy ground, and the chill air was warmed by a breeze from somewhere else entirely, places I could only dream of. I drew in a deep breath of that fresh cool air, smiling as I did so. I could smell the promise of sun drenched days once again, of blackberries and honeysuckle, backyard barbecues, long days in the sun, and warm nights with the windows open. As we walked inside I couldn't help but idly look up in the sky. My cheeks flushed red as I wondered if those summer birds returned to where they'd been the previous year, or if when they flew, they really did fly away. I guess I'll find out soon, I mused, as I heard the sweet song of a swallow.

Author's Note

This is a first draft.

Reviews

[Victoria Everly]

It's a little sad, but heart warming at the same time. It's great!