midsummer fires
Soot spirals up towards the dimly lit sky as stars lay scattered behind the clouds. There is no breeze amidst the trees and bramble, or if there is it cannot be felt unless you are really paying attention. The moon hangs in the corner of the sky as if foreshadowing to the earthen world around me that it will soon be too dark to see without its glow. A fire sits vacant before us, burning as an afterthought atop a broken pile of twisted wood. Smoke bleeds through every inch of space exposed to the cool night air and flames dance with lazy purpose upwards with mangled hands toward the sky. Charred wood embers flourish beneath the rocks, glimmering in reflection of the pale gray sky. The sun seems to diminish with a slight of hand, she vanishes with no one watching.
There is a drawn out silence in the air that makes every crack of fire sound like a strike of lightning. Fireflies graze absentmindedly around us, vanishing and making a swift reappearance a few feet away. My sister trails after them, sprawling through the dense grass, fingers stretching into nothingness. I follow, more so out of concern than curiosity. Her laughter carries her back to the safety of a warm campsite, equipped with a leaning tent composed of rainproof plastic canvas and wooden stakes that pray to be unearthed each time wind passes.
I continue on this path, weaving between thick and thin branches, ducking so I do not rush into the heavy branches, though smaller limbs with sharper claws seem to catch me by surprise regardless. My footing is clumsy compared to the quick jab of a rabbit or delicate sprint of a deer. I wonder what the forest thinks of such disruption. I take care not to trample over the plants below me, though I must admit this is more so I do not sprain my ankle than for their safety. Light filters through the leaves swaying overhead, a thousand miniature spotlights illuminating the path before me.
The trees break at some point, scattering until the land is flat and even the grass grows sparse. I do not see the water until my shoes sink into the thick mud of the shore. I raise them from the ground, leaving two asymmetrical holes in the sand. As I walk along the shore, I hear the waves washing away any traces I leave behind.
I watch the waves lapping over one another like feet dancing in a crowded room. The crystalline crests reflect off of the moon and blind me if I try to focus on one at once. The water is pitch black, thick and sinister ink disguising itself by lack of sunlight. My thoughts drift back a thousand paces to a warm fire as the temperature around me slowly falls. I consider retracing my steps as my foot falls on the flat wooden surface of a boardwalk. It stretches from beneath the earth farther beyond the waves than I can see. I step on the first panel and it does not splinter beneath my feet. Step after step, until I see nothing on either side of me except the rocking black glass of the sea.
The old wooden platform sways with the energy of the water, I pause to look into the waves. Even in light of the moon I can hardly make sense of the surface. I reach down with trembling hands to touch the water, a desire to confirm my own fear of how cold it must be. In the same instance a wave sprays against my face, I stumble back until the surface beneath me vanishes. I was wrong. The water is not cold, though it is everywhere, filling my lungs and causing me to wonder.
