July Is Nearing

Even though it was nearing July, the weather was not warm. In fact, by most standards, it was cold. October cold.

Two forms sat outside, the evening starting to zip up, leaching all of the color from the sky and morphing it black. There was still a little bit of red to the sky, as if someone spilled Hawaiian Punch on the canvas, and it bled outwards in wispy vanes.

The trees waved, clothed once more in suits and dresses of summer green. Dogwoods and spruces of colors broke up the monotony of the forest by growing where their families dare not travel.

It was there that the two forms lay on the brick patio on their backs, bundled up in attire one might don for the fall or winter weather. Heavy black coats were pulled around their thin frames, draping off of their shoulders and entombing their faces within the cavernous hood. Overalls and rubber muck boots completed the gear, covering their denim clad legs.

Wind bit at both of the children's faces, trying to devour their flesh and spin their hair to gold with greedy fingers. Most wouldn't brave the cold, but if you looked close at them behind the rosy blush, you would almost think they were enjoying themselves.

It's odd, the one child thought bemusedly. It's moments like these, moments that others would consider miserable or unimportant that you truly discover the beauty of the world. The routine of Earth, a task that has never failed to wake us and keep life moving on in a continuous circle. The way light reflects off of a glassy pond, the way the light is distorted oddly in the surface. How the trees border the sun as it goes to bed for the night. How the stars wink in the sky, singing sonnets to the moon. And most of all, that feeling of pure happiness that generates at the core of your being for no apparent reason at all.

That eternal flame that nothing can quell ignites the moment we realize that our lives are ahead of us, shining in glorious opportunities and we are fully in control.

Sometimes, it is these moments that make more of an impression on us than more important events within our life.

The stars appear, opening their nocturnal eyes and smiling out at the world as they hang lazily about the crescent moon. The brother and sister find constellations in the sky, drawing invisible threads between the needle heads waiting to be threaded. The lines create some sort of macabre dagger necklace lurking in wait near the jolly sliver the moon has been reduced to.

Blood-lines. What a wonderful tool to paint the world with. Even the previous years of bickering exchanged in a frenzy between the siblings has been extinguished and crumpled to ashes. The old feud of who-mom-likes-better and who-dad-likes-better faded.

It was there, under the moon, that two beings raised hating and bickering learn to love each other.

It was there that two beings fused into one, united by the gentle, guiding hand of the caressing world around them.