Monday, April 26, 2010

Remember This

The sunny suburban street becomes silent and mysterious as night falls. Trees stand tall against the sky, their black silhouette stark against the deep navy of the night. The roses fade into the bushes, and the cars are motionless and dead. The streetlamp come to life, casting a golden glow on the yellow leaves surrounding them, a halo of rippling color. We pause at the base of one concrete giant, turning our faces upward to the illuminated scene.

"It's like something out of a children's book."


A sliver of moon peeks out from behind a cloud, a hint at the rain that is sure to come. We bask in the light for a little longer, saying nothing. A wave of urgency rolls through us, and something we've only ever alluded to but never dared to voice is voiced in the midst of our silent awe.

We're running out of time.

We part ways at our corner, and I walk a few steps, then stop. Breathe it all in. Remember this. The sound of my heels thudding softly against the sidewalk echoes, the only noise in a sleeping town. Commit this to memory. I slow my gait, drinking in the darkness, the light, and the shadows that hover in between. Don't forget this.

I open the front door, and the light penetrates me in an instant, the darkness and beauty abandoned in favor of warmth and safety. I turn, giving one last longing glance to the night, and then pull the door shut, retreating to a prison built of expectations and algebra homework.

Remember this.

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