Yesterday morning I awoke to raindrops and grey sky. Memorial Day weekend — it didn’t seem so.
Around 9:00pm I drove. I ended up near the water, somewhere in Ballard. The setting sun had lured me.
I parked my car, first, and then my behind, in the sand. I adjusted the bill of my hat, kicked off my slippahs, hugged my knees tight to my chest, and stared.
Before long, I was studying.
Shadows draped themselves across far-away mountains, more aggressively with each passing minute. An endless soft blue was blended perfectly into a bold streak of orange and melting into the horizon. The water, like stained glass, glistened with impressions of yellow, disturbed only by the ripples of skipping rocks; a movement which could be traced to the distant silhouette of a man. Back on shore, flames erupted from pits and smoke dissipated into the surrounding air.
I shut my eyes and inhaled a breath of sooty bonfire, feeling that simultaneously, a giant smirk had crept across the lower half of my face.
I felt good. Really good.
A bit of nostalgia, I suppose; for a time when Summer was not merely a season, but a way of life. This scene was home.
I relished in it for a minute or two before opening my eyes and hoisting myself from the ground.
A moment of familiarity was just enough.