Losing the Shine

It was requested that I post this from my myspace blog (myspace.com/sjreeves75) So here ya go.


Losing the Shine

It was sunlight, it was summer (somehow it was always summer) and, as my cousin said, it was peach trees. I had not thought of it all in a while, but at the mention of the trees I cried for half an hour. Yeah, it was always peach trees. That seems to have always been the key, the one magic element that could conjur it all up for me. But like I said, I hadn't thought of it all for a long, long time. There are somethings, some memories, that you can't recall very often, or linger on very long. Not because they are disturbing, but because they are so achingly beautiful that the rest of your life and the rest of your memories pale in the light of it. Nothing will ever quite live up to that kind of beauty or perfection or completeness, and that's when despair begins to creep in. Because like they've always said, you can never go back again. But every once in a while, when I really need it, when the rest of my life just isn't ideal, I return there. And it's always summer. And through the years I've realized that it had nothing to do with that house, because honestly it was nothing grand. By most standards it wouldn't even be considered pretty, but, god, it was perfect. The perfection came from within though, because, the two best souls that ever walked the earth, lived there. That perfection, and wholeness eminated through the whole place, every inch of the house and yard , the dirt road, the surrounding woods. It was the only place in the world that I can remember, always, without fail, being completely happy, everytime. I have not one bad memory there. And at the heart of each memory I find him. She was also unspeakably dear to me, but when I return there, it's always to him. I suppose because he was there with me more often. And like the house, I suppose he was nothing grand, but to the child I was, he was insurmountably wonderful. I am almost thirty, and have yet to find another human I felt could relate so perfectly to me as he did. An unlikely pair I guess, a dirty, bratty little girl with sticky hands smelling of sweat and lightening bugs, and a weathered old veteran of wars and other adventures, with a beer in his hand, a ciggerette in his mouth, and an uncanny knack for whittling. But we were the best of friends, and he always took me along, no matter where he was headed. For some reason, getting to go along, is extremely important to children. They always remember who took them along, and who left them behind. The destination is not important, down the road for a coke, or across the country to see something magnificent. They only remember if you wanted them along for the trip or not. He always wanted me along for the trip. He never left me behind. I suppose that has alot to do with my connection to him. He always just acted like I was important, like I was a person just like him. He never petted me, or really spoiled me. He talked to me a lot. He explained things. He'd pick peaches for me in the morning, cut em up, stick them in the freezer, and give them to me when I would complain of the heat in the afternoons. He gave me space and kept me safe at the same time. I don't know if my perception of those long distant things has lost a little truth and replaced it with fantasy or not. I suppose that happens to some of our memories. I hope that's not the case. I really hope no one ever tries to correct me if that is the case. Maybe it was just a different me living back then, someone who could see that kind of beauty and security in a lot of things. We all start to lose the shine as the years roll. But I like to think it was both. It was him, being wonderful, and it was me, less jaded, and it all came together for a very few wonderful summers under the peach trees.