Author: me. moi. ich PM
this is a weak attempt at a "meaningful" short story-- usually I don't write like this -poetry is more my forte- .. advice on how to improve is GREATLY appreciatedRated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort/Fantasy - Words: 554 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Published: 03-13-08 - id: 2488436
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
There's something electric about summer nights. The way that they seem to breathe and swell into enormous pockets of navy blue bliss is incomparable to the bleak water-coloured twilights of winter and spring, when everything is still too fragile to be able to withstand the heavy vibrancy of a stunning summer sunset.
The stars too, they seem to crowd down on the earth during the summer, adding to the heaviness as they listen in on the quiet. They're a lot more confident when the sun sees it fit to shine down on earth, tagging along like children following their teacher at a museum. ("Remember, please don't touch the displays!")
It's rather surprising too, how they maintain a sort of constant brilliancy. Wherever you are, you can always depend on a good summer night to make you feel as if the world is perfect― as if you're complete; the stars being the pattern on a security blanket of orange and purple and blue that makes you feel as if there's nothing wrong in your life, and that there never, ever will be. ("But miss, it's just so pretty!")
I really miss that feeling.
My last summer night was four years, three months, and seventeen days ago. It was beautiful; I remember it clearly: Simon and I were napping under an old oak tree by the power lines, singing into the sunset, catching fireflies under the moon, and laughing at the stupidest things until our stomachs hurt.
I miss Simon too.
Chances are he's enjoying another summer night right now, with some other person― hopefully committing it all to memory, seeing as it's all that I have now.
Photographs really can't do the summer justice. You can't capture the pulse of an evening in a picture. You need to remember everything; the sound, the feel, the taste of the night― they're all crucial, all fundamental in its remembrance.
But then that's the same with anything.
Hopefully Simon has more than pictures.
I really wish I knew how the summer nights look right now; I want to see what he sees. New stars are constantly being born (like teardrops on a pillow), and since I've been sewn into the sky, my perspective has changed.
Sometimes I can see Simon, all the way down there, on that pretty little blue puddle which used to be my home. Although somewhat alien from up here, it's comforting to have it in sight.
But I miss the orange and the purple of the summer; there aren't any seasons up here.
One day, Simon will join me, and take away some of my loneliness― a happy occasion, but rather bittersweet. I don't want to see his smile fade into a little ball of light― he needs to remain whole for me, which isn't possible up here; memory is all that persists. (I would know.)
He needs to stay down there, live for the summers of his life, and revel in the security of a humid, enchanting midnight like the one that we had over four years ago.
I'll watch over him.
I'll be his security blanket, and make his life whole from a distance, comforting him on those long summer nights.