Trees. The morning begins with this one sound of the
slow rustle of trees circling the hill. The leaves barely brush each other, but
the sound echoes across the cement deck and through the umbrellas and the
chipped lane lines, making them to sway side to side on their weak cables. Nothing
moves except the trees. As light fills the sky, the sun can catch a glimpse of
little dots swarming around the water and diving in one by one. Suddenly, the scene
can be likened to Grand Central Station as the water splashes the sky, gossip
blooms and travels in corners and screams are directed at the little dots in
the water. The scarcity of neighbors is
no mystery. At this early in the morning, normal people are dreaming away with
the sun creeping in through cracks and crevices. But for us little dots, we are
blinded and drowned in the sun and water and the sound of people.
Then, just as they entered, the dots slowly retreat
from the water and disappear back through the gate. The water slowly drips back
from the sky and splatters the deck. The stubborn lane lines fight with the
water and each other, but most of all us, as they are rolled back into place.
Car doors slam and tires crunch away to the bright green, yellow and red lights
down the road. The crystal water becomes so still, it seems like a painting
waiting for the jump. Patches of short grass seem to be reaching towards the
sky, threatening for you to come and prick your feet. Chlorine hangs in the air
and to our suits, overcoming even the smell of sizzling pizza for lunch in the
life guard shack.
These are the moments that belong to few people in
the world. It is the opportunity to take the remote control and pause your
life, rub your eyes from staring at the screen for too long, step back and look
around. Where one can sit back and watch the earth and sky move.
For me, all the hubbub of even summer days disappeared
like the dots and my only worry in the world was if I was cherishing the moment
enough. These moments belonged to me for a short time. A few others and I had
the privilege to lounge in the shade and have our wrinkled skin be seared by
the hot plastic, and watch the sky and the earth move together. These slow
ticks between Grand Central Station mode and patience practice with little
children and floaties; they belonged to us too.
A few ticks later, the moment would be gone just as
fast as it came and flip flops would scrape the cement once more. Noodles and
melting kickboards would be dragged toward the edge of the waiting water. But
for that short time, the pool was ours. The water, the grass, the trees- all
ours to share and treasure. Day after day, month after month while the noodles
drooped lower and the kickboards became as soft as playdoh. These days lingered
and escaped every night until the gates were clicked and closed, the water
concealed and the dots walk sluggishly down the road home. The moment stays
until the deck becomes a graveyard for tent skeletons and the trees lose their
rustling leaves to the autumn wind.
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