A Summer Passes
As the old man sits on the porch, the rhythmic rocking of his chair produces a creaking noise that clashes with the harmonious notes coming from the cardinals in the adjacent trees. He’s unaware his movements make a disruptive noise that offsets the birds animated warble. He is too preoccupied to take in the free avian concert.
His thoughts have wandered back to how the days passed so quickly without notice or urgency. He remembers carefree summers of his youth, running barefoot through the pine forest, the branches jutting out like arms trying to slow him down. He recalls his mother’s baked pies sitting on the windowsill to cool, the enticing aromas permeating the kitchen. He relives the thrill of catching crayfish in the book next to the decrepit barn as the invigorating water swirls about, anchoring his feet to the streambed. He reminisces of drifting off to sleep under a canopy of stars as his older brother stirs the smoldering embers of a waning campfire.
He retraces his path to here by inventorying both the jubilant as well as heartbreaking moments. Like the intermittent cool breeze from the oscillating fan on the dusty floor, the memories fluctuate between turbulent and calm, refreshing and stifling. Throughout it all, he endured the dark times, the low points, knowing that sadness is offset by the comforting times which follows life’s natural ebb and flow.
There was optimism for a bright future. Then the war and its disruptive, lasting impact. The various jobs and associated travels he undertook. His wedding day, the tragic death of his middle son, the birth of his grandchildren and the passing of his wife seem evenly distributed over time. Maturity has purged the resentment and self-pity associated with the setbacks punctuating his 77 years. He tempered his attitude about life’s harshness knowing there were never any guarantees. Feeling cheated or bitter at this point wastes precious energy and time, both of which are finite commodities not to be squandered. Tears will dry up while smiles can be retrieved. He appreciates the good and weathers the bad because you can’t have one without the other. He understands that life balances itself out.
Yet sitting there, as the condensation from the glass of lemonade beads up and rolls around his swollen fingers, the old man can’t help but be envious of the possibilities available to his granddaughter. He longs for the intellectual stimulus of college; something he never finished, much to the dismay of his father. He yearns to socialize with his peers, an opportunity lost since most of his friends are physically or geographically gone. He desires the wonderment of learning something new and overcoming inexperience. He wants to be mentored. These are unattainable now, stolen by the passing years. “Youthful innocence“ is not compatible with anyone his age.
She’s the future. He’s the past.
His granddaughter sighs. Sitting quietly on the porch steps, listening to the birds, she knows it’s time. Summer is ending, which means sixth grade is only one week away. She dreads going back home to start a new school year in a new building with different teachers and different subjects. She wishes she could trade places with her grandfather. In her eyes, he doesn’t have a care in the world. No worries. The idea of waiting months before she has a summer free to do nothing again is daunting. She hopes time passes quickly.