These August days begin with a still, cool morning. Other days, other Augusts come to mind. I remember August days when I was a child. I remember running barefoot through tickly grass, walking through dusty places and feeling warm dust puff up between my toes, dancing quickly over rocks that were too hot for lingering. The water in the pond would get low for the cows and horse, but the well never failed. We had an unending supply of cold, fresh water from deep beneath the ground.
I remember hollyhocks by the well curb, morning glories by the window. Spreading an old quilt on the ground and looking up at the sky was a favorite way to spend a hot summer afternoon, after the morning chores were finished. Green tree leaves made lacy patterns against a blue, blue sky. Lazy white clouds wandered across the heavens, long-necked giraffes, puffy, white elephants, in no hurry to go anywhere, traveling with the breeze. It was a time for dreaming.
Memories are all just wispy fragments of the past, but as real as today. They are as much a part of me as breathing.
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