A Picnic

Though small, it’s a reminder that nothing leaves you entirely, that something may grow faint, but it never disappears. Expectation returned as night fell, and we left with a hope for what morning would bring.

Picnics, entertaining in the outdoors. I loved afternoons like this, quiet, still, but restorative, refreshing and full. Quickly the hours moved, and it became the evening’s literature, soft, short passages dictating what I had seen, heard, thought and believed. It was in the evening, during those nights spent outside, that I am made witness to all beauty, internalizing everything from beyond myself, everything I was separate from only seconds before.

I lay in the field, my eyes moving upwards from all others, gaining a certain calm in the sight of the sky. On that blanket strewn across our humble patch of ground, my sister and I savored the light of a summer evening in Lenox.

Suddenly I forget myself, becoming numb to the sadness that had once run through me. It shifted to a slight pain concentrated in my elbow’s bend. Though small, it’s a reminder that nothing leaves you entirely, that something may grow faint, but it never disappears. Expectation returned as night fell, and we left with a hope for what morning would bring.