The scent of fresh mountain air always brings me back to the nights when I would lie and watch the stars by myself, surrounded by the chirping and gallivanting insects. The night sounds comforted me. Omnipresent and ubiquitous, the wispy breezes accompanied the insects in a sort of philharmonic orchestra of summer. It was delightful, the only place I felt wanted and loved, in the temperate night air, on the slanted hill littered with daisies. It does not seem like much now, looking back on it, but it has always been something I have adored.
Crisp zephyr wind, aromatic, freshly cut grass in the lawns below me, the symphony of bugs conversing; it all made for such a pleasant environment. A place free of worry and devoid of life's little issues. It was a forgiving environment, the night was. The day – the harsh, hot, and fervent summer days did not offer much consolation to me. Nothing compared to the cordialness of the night.
I recall breathing in the relieving air as if it was a healing mist. A vapor that could renew my heart and soul. Sometimes, the night seemed too good to be genuine. It all came off as a once in a lifetime opportunity. As I am writing this, it appears as though all of those assumptions have come true. I no longer have the time to lie in the chartreuse meadow of small flowers with only the night to confide in. The nighttime and I have gone our separate ways.
It was then the sad truth dawned upon me. Being the measly six year-old I was I knew things would only get harder. I realized that my personal issues would only grow tougher and more irreconcilable as I pushed through life with only six inches in front of my face. The thought of such hardship dampened my morale and even depressed me. I thought, and think, too much.
As if returning from a short leave, the night restored itself to me once again. I slept in its solacing embrace, wishing to stay in its grasp forever. My grandmother called me, "Come back in now," breaking me from my innocent friendship of making clover bracelets and sharing ignorant secrets with the darkness. I could only imagine the battles, the love, the depression, the joy, the absolute wondrousness the dusky evening had seen. The incomparable wisdom it must hide; it could not be ashamed to be so knowledgeable, it could only offer some of its sapience to those just passing through.
It was the nights the rain separated me from my hillside that saddened me further. Even while the rain was like a close friend of mine, it became a third wheel on those highly anticipated, thoughtful midsummer nights. However, I submissively chatted with the humid drops of water as I abided the arrival of the next pleasant obscurity.
The damp and dewy grass was not a bother to me; it only softened my worries and held me gently in its arms. I could almost sleep in the dank field, even while it was indeed dank; I could see myself becoming accustomed to slumbering in the enclosure. The moist flowers that held proudly the reflective, crystal drops shared some of their bedtime stories with me, whispering about how the tepid nights would return to hold me once again as the glowing stars concurred. It assured and eased me to know that they would return once more, still with volumes of their intelligence to enlighten me.
Unfortunately, as the summertime progressed, I could feel the night losing interest in me, seeing as I had other things to be foreseeing. School, homework, commitment; things that would leave the night alone while I slept in my own bed, feeling dejected and forgotten. As though replaced by my material friends at school, which while virtually nonexistent, still substituted the amenity of the night.