[To be read to Agape, by Nicholas Britell]
The late June air is thick with Midwest humidity; not syrupy and uncomfortable, but heavy like a weighted blanket or wool wrapped snugly around your body. The world seems sleepy in the muggy lull of a summer day. The late afternoon hours cast goldenrod filters across field of soy and corn, blades of long grass glittering in the occasional wheezy breeze. Summer bugs stir and start to wake for the night; tuning themselves to harmonize in their symphonies.
In inspiration of a relaxed family outing, six bikes sail along smooth pavement winding through farmscape scenery dotted with little almost-forgotten towns and cushioned by acres of woods casting cool shade on the worn path. Mom and Dad trail behind, exchanging quiet smiles while savoring the moment in wisdom acquired with age. The kids speed ahead in competition with each other, unknowingly soaking in innocent bliss of a careless afternoon. Laughter and shouts staccato through the steady song of summer atmosphere.
Air slips like smooth silk between outstretched arms and widespread fingers. The wind braces against your forearms and whips through wild blonde hair twisting and tangling in a trail behind your head. Ambient air roars in your ears as you slice through afternoon stillness, intertwining with a laugh that bubbles from untainted elation. Your head is tilted back and face upwards towards a cotton candy & creamsicle melted sky; the Sun’s grandiose goodbye to the day and welcome to a hushed night sky, soon to be sparkled with silvery stars. The peripheral world blurs together in streaks of greens and golds as you glide down a smoothly sloping hill to slow into a lazy stride at the plateau of the path.
Suddenly, a small town seemly frozen in simpler times is birthed from a cluster of trees just beyond the weathered railroad tracks. Worn, tired houses with rocking chair adorned, sagging stoops and the occasional glass-fronted shop line the trail in a friendly embrace; warmly welcoming visitors to wander from the outside world.
In this tiny interruption of feathered fields of crop and wildflowers, an inveterate church with wide, stained glass windows as delicate and beautiful as butterfly wings stood tall on a large hill as if keeping watch over the somnolent remnants of the town. Alongside your mother, you climb the mountainous incline, pushing your bikes underneath a breathtakingly ornate wrought iron archway as ancient as the church itself. You spend the last hours slipping from the grasp of day wandering through the landmark of stone and metal; marveling in hushed awe at the ancient dates etched and faded with time. The world seemed to stand still, holding its breath; solemnly remembering those of all generations resting inside the iron gates.
The last rays of the day are fading from the skyline as you finally return back to the car; skin warm from the sun and muscles delightfully exhausted from an afternoon adventure. The windows are down, welcoming in the sweet scent of summertime night as a gentler breeze spills into the car. Your cheek falls to rest on the upholstered shoulder of the seat as you gaze upward at a sky quickly filling with stars. You close your eyes and car lulls you gently to sleep. You don’t know it then, but you will rarely know a greater peace than to fall asleep on this Sunday summer night, ignorant of anything outside of the simple joy of an evening spent with the people you love the most.
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