1.4 Now and Then

Quiet, but not silent. A soft song, singing smoothly, like a gentle stream of water cascading down a hill. The bees sing too, their wings producing a small “buzz”. From flower to flower, they dance. Wind swirls through the long grass, and around the rusty swing set, the chains jangling like a wind chime. Bliss.

Coating the picnicker’s skin, the warm early sun shines above. Long grass tickles at their ankles as they kneel down to smell the flowers. Petals opening after a long sleep. An array of gentle colours carpet the grass. Light pinks, pastel blues, and vibrant yellows, all contrasted against the ivy green.

Every so often, when a family come for a trip, the children leave the checkered blanket. Scurrying to the play set, they run over the dips and bumps of the uneven terrain. Wooden walls barred the bark from escaping, but the shoes of the children kick many pieces out. Spider webs hide in the shadows of the play set, only disturbed by unlucky bugs and ravenous little hands.

The parents might wander off to the vegetable garden, it’s oak walls now soft and crumbling. Peaking through the fertile soil were sprouts, too shy to emerge. They smile about fixing up their old garden, this new one inspiring them. On the walk back to the car, the children lift their heads and proudly display their findings. Through soft giggles, and warm smiles, they’d drive home, children falling asleep in the back.

It was still quiet, but the garden wasn’t singing anymore. It is but a strangled whisper. Bees aren’t dancing, and the swing set no longer sounding so sweet. Lovely, soft colours of the garden had vanished, replaced only by sooty, dying, grey. The jangle of the swings became the dreadful moans and creaks of the metal pipes, and rotting wood.

An overcast day halts the sun’s warmth ever reaching your skin, that is, if you dared to leave the house with any showing. The chilly wind was bad enough, whipping through your hair and inside your coat. Auburn leaves lay strewn. Their crunch providing delight for the young. Uneven dirt hold the half frozen puddles, so desperately longed for by vigorous kids. Gumboots shattering the thin layer of ice.

The smell of rain mixed with the scent of hot chocolate, drifting from a nearby coffee shop. Occasionally, the parents of those eager kids would wander over to the garden, cheeks tainted red from the cold. Shivering fingers wrapped around their hot drinks. They’d huddle together, boots sinking into the grey and lifeless grass. Glasses would fog up from the drinks heat, and everything would become a blur of ash.

Below the parents’ view, the chill swirl piles of leaves into fantastic swirls of a fire. Scorching at the legs of passerby’s, the blaze consuming all in its wake. Up the disintegrating bark of the oak, a mockery of what it had been before. It laughed, before carrying on.

Underneath the planks of the playground lay frost. Thin, and spread out. The weak sun could do nothing to rid it, but the children could. Looking in all the same crevasses, no bugs could be found. There was only ice. As stubby fingers brush against it, eyes lit up with wonder. Hearing their parents calls, they run back, but not before leaving a mark in the frost.

As the car rumbles with life, the air conditioning bringing the well needed warmth. Frozen fingers wrap around the cold leather of the steering wheel. The chill blows in through the open door, taking a few stray leaves with it. Skipping over the bumps, the children hurry back, fighting through endless waves of fire. All to make it to the car. Finally, the chill would bother them, no more.