Summer’s golden strand…the longest day, the calmest center…pearly waters and miles of rest. Her nose pressed up against the glass of summer’s edge…in love with ghosts from the past…those creaky wagon wheels heading west, blue moon ice cream…the sweeping wheat winds of the glorious prairie lands…burnt brown with the threat of drought edged along the periwinkle blue of the flax fields. Ten years old again…feeling the cement of the tired school building leaving the soles of weary feet as each step edged closer to the slamming door.

She sat back in the chair by the window, carefully placing the pen on the table in front of her. Thoughtfully, carefully she lifted her right leg up over the left leg, avoiding striking the top of her naked foot against the curved, leaf shaped wrought iron table leg; bent and hammered with superb craftsmanship.

The edge of the curtain lay still, unmoving against the painted ledge of the open window. The backyard nestled quietly and resting under the June stupor of a blue sky and galleon clouds. The neighborhood was silent in the mid morning lull. The annual shifting of persons, property, job responsibilities and weather which began to emerge at the beginning of June and then with a gust of upheaval, newly planted rose bushes and fresh rain, had suddenly tossed away spring and presented summer as a precious gift to be enjoyed by all.

Windows opened in the evening and remained un-shuttered all day as the more brutal warming of July had not yet descended over the lake, fields and homes. The gauzy veil separating spring from summer dropped suddenly and overnight the pace of the neighborhood ceased its frantic thrashing. Where for ten months, there had lingered the sound and fumes of the morning school buses and the racing energy in the air…sleepers now turned over languidly and crawled under a soft comforter; no longer any need to rush anywhere. Those who could lie abed in the mornings indulged themselves while the neighborhood remained silent as the grave, save for the quiet movements of those few souls who slid stealthily out of the surroundings, headed for the open road and jobs lying elsewhere.

She brought her breakfast to the porch and sliced carefully into the top sugary layer of wild blueberry bread, careful to retrieve any errant crumb which might tumble onto the floor. The coffee was boiled and sufficiently layered in sweet cream right down to the bottom of the ceramic mug. The floor was heating up comfortably with the morning sun. Baskets of pink bubblegum petunias hung happily in the still air, almost motionless, shedding the occasional petal over chair cushions and railing on the patio below. The tiniest bird hopped and pecked on the edge of one of the baskets, looked curiously at her through the blossoms and then went back about his business.

‘What do I want?’ She stretched out leisurely in her chair and took the first sip of the creamy brew. ‘What do I really want?’ she asked the bird. The thick smell of flowers and greening lawns wafted through the porch shades. The neighborhood slept on. ‘I want this’ she answered. She looked around. ‘I want silence’.