The Writer's Voice
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by
Brittany Hanson
The morning, christened by the golden sunlight, was like most summer mornings. Quiet, peaceful, full of freshness. Where the dew hung like orbs of crystal to the spider’s web or blades of grass. Where all is calm, and you feel this is your own private utopia as you sit on the back stoop, letting the light glaze your smiling face.
Ahhh, summer. Those lazy days of fresh air and sunlight, of lying in a lover’s arms beneath an inky black blanket dotted with shimmering stars, with that fleeting feeling of love in your heart. The feeling of the cold pure water of a stream high in the hills rushing past your feet, or the exhilarating rush of the wind whipping through your hair as you ride hell bent on the back of your black mustang. Where hearts ran wild and so did the adolescent society, now that they were not confined behind the cold brick walls of the institution of education. Yes, that was summer, and here it was in all its glory.
But the best part of summer was the memories it created, those that would never be forgotten as long as one remained on this earth. Those cherished memories, that you held close to your heart to look back on in your darkest hour, giving you that final amount of strength to pull yourself over the edge and back into reality. Those thoughts that made you go, "Back in the good old days…." Or, "Back when I was young and crazy…." Always starting with back, as if that was when the good times, the cherished memories took place, not in the here and now, but back. It seemed as if back was a place you wanted to be, but just couldn’t find your way far enough in the past to be at.
When you sat in your rocking chair staring forlornly out the window to the grounds of the nursing home your so called "loved ones" had so kindly stashed you away in, thinking about days gone by. When those little scouts came through the doors so full of boyish exuberance, you wished they could see you for the gorgeous bloom you once were, not the withered and listless shell of what used to be. Back. Back when? When you were in love? When you were young? Back what or was it just back?
But you couldn’t get back. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how hard you cried and prayed and begged you were stuck here. But one could dream, could they not? Staring out that glaring window, never seeing what was before you, but years gone by, at memories formed long ago. Back.
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