Thursday, August 13, 2009

Let it be.

"And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be."

~Paul McCartney

The memories of Lake mornings break into a thousand pieces like the sun reflecting off of a million tiny waves. All of them beautiful, some brighter than others.

Unlike the night previous (the fire-fly like sparks rose well into the sky, danced with the billions of stars visible, and disappeared)-- which coagulated the deepening red of the evening into a bluish ink sea, fading to black-- a pale gray/blue stirs in the east, over the mountains.

The rain stops, but the sound echoes in my thoughts. Pine cones falling through tree branches, a squirrel voicing its displeasure (or pleasure). The roof shakes with the wind and the creaking of loose boards sets me into a hypnotic state, alternative to sleep, something of a meditation. The light is soft and dramatic, a silky, flowing river of light upon my hand, which I have outstretched toward the drawn curtains. The dull roar of not too distant waves crashing on the beach are a metronome, soothing and constant.

I hear the sound of my grandfather coughing from the floor below where my bed is; his trademark cough in the morning.

It was always strangely comforting.

The heavy, cast-iron lid of the wood burning stove clangs into place after its morning feeding of tamrack. Popping and hissing as the pockets of air and pitch are released by the ensuing flames. Grandpa clears his throat, the TV clicks on, my grandmother scuffs into the kitchen.

Chatter, now. The simple morning chatter repeated a thousand times, with similar questions, similar answers. I maybe roll my eyes, but it's like mom fixing your hair. You love it and hate it all at once. Smells from the kitchen are now making their way up the stairs, and my stomach responds affirmatively. I roll over, excited for another wonderful day of lake things with my favorite people and favorite sights and sounds, and plant my feet on the floor. Cold, unfinished wood. Sand in the grooves.

And with each step down the old, steep stairs there is a groan and a creak, signal (and warning) to those already awake that the kid has arisen. Quiet time is officially over.


mossygirl said...

Sounds like our trip up there last summer, staying in the grandparents' attic, bringing back memories of sleeping in the solid, opaque darkness back in high school.

And the floorboard creaks again announced "the kids are awake".

Some things never change, until they change forever.

Aaron said...

How it is.

Steve Moss said...

So perfectly written! God you make me miss it there. You cause me to once again miss my dad, too.