Some days, wisps of memories force themselves out from some forgotten recess of my mind and play themselves out, like an old-time movie, before my eyes. They are happy memories; memories of childhood summers. And they are vivid. So vivid that I can feel the languid air of the fan as it gently caresses my warm skin. So seemingly recent, that my eyes are blinded by the silver light of mid-morning bouncing off of my white bedroom walls.
Outside my open window the cicadas sing shrilly to their hearts’ content; drunk on the heady heat of an unyielding sun. I can almost smell summer – that strange scent of dust and dry vegetation. I am staring at the ceiling, noting the strange patterns that the paint and the light seem to be conspiring to create on it.
It’s time to get up. But do I really want to? The hours stretch out endlessly. It seems like sunset is an eternity away. There are so many minutes to fill up. I gaze back up at the ceiling, thinking I can see the outline of a sheep in the furthest corner of the room. Perhaps it’s not just the cicadas who are drunk on the heat and the light. I can hear nothing else but their crazy, tuneless song but I force my ears to drown out their dizzying sound.
Now I am able to hear the clock tick-tocking away in our hall. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. How many more tick-tocks till nightfall? Maybe I would stay in bed and count them, while conjuring up imaginary patterns on the ceiling.
Somewhere outside the cool, blue expanse that is the sea beckons and friends are impatiently waiting, anticipating a game of hopscotch or hide and seek. I could get up. I should get up, throw on a dress and start my day. Or I could lie on my entangled sheets and continue to count each tick. And each tock.
Just as quickly as it came, the memory fades. Ah, childhood, when time seemed endless and we wasted it by the bucket-load. Just because we thought it would last forever. Just because we could.