REMNANTS OF ABUNDANCE

Summer. A season of long, hot days. Late afternoon black and green thunderstorms. Perfect weather to watch vines and tendrils weave their magic through the garden and over the shed, and the tiny green hoppers flitting through the herbs delighted at the bounty that lay before them. And never-ending, sleep-eluding nights suffocated by dampness on the leaves. And humidity. The crackle of lightning in the midnight sky. Rain drops on the tin roof, one, and another, heavier and heavier. Water gushing down the drainpipe to its own singsong beat. The green frog calling for a mate. A roll of thunder. The endless drone of mosquitos.

Simple fragments of memory. Of other summers, happier times. I’d missed all the magic while regimented by locks and clocks and bells and a time for every action in ordered days of penance; all my hours rolled into one. Bound by ties of remorse I yearned for days and nights of simple freedom. And time to luxuriate in choice and free will.

I’d missed the white sheets flapping on the line in the breeze, dry before lunchtime and fresh on the bed that night. I’d missed those who people my life with love and longing; letters scented with the shy fragrance of home, the paper worn at the creases from opening and closing, and opening just one more time for tears to spill of their own free will.

They told me summer had stretched forever this year. The garden had been copious in its bounty and fruitfulness.

……..

I was home by late autumn. I’d missed those muggy days and clammy nights on the verandah — I’d missed my nose twitching to the scent of the mosquito coil. I’d missed a season of rain and sunshine, of fresh-picked lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers for lunch.

And too fast it was winter. The vines spent of their pride, compost heaps overflowing with discarded plants — simple remnants of abundance. Reminders of days past, days of regret, days I’d missed.