Beer in a wine glass and the warm summer sun that bakes down upon the frosted surface of an outdoor dining table. Four chairs sit casually around this table, each in turn covered by a faded pinstripe plastic–once green and now only washed by rain and sunlight; they grow tacky under the heat of the afternoon, with a visible crackle, they crumble in rebellion against any movement, the green and white covering almost softer than the time worn padding underneath.
Beside these chairs sits a stacked duo of milkcrate centric engineering crowned with the garnish of a throw-pillow from the couch inside: this seat had been cobbled together as its prior–now only a pile of detritus–had to be hidden behind the shed in the shame of forgotten celebration.
Five laughing voices ring out to the blue sky above and startle the birds at rest in the garden’s jacaranda; a whip and two bells, baulk at this sudden noise as they are woken by a honking gaggle, the delicateness of their normal melody bulldozed by foirgn gusto. Taking flight the birds depart in search of a quiet place to perch far beyond the treeline, while those below will look for nowhere else.
A deck, loose of nail and scant of varnish, sighs under the weight of time and pacing footfall: the slight bounce to the boards had long ago had become less of a concern and now only lingered as a trait. It creaks and stretches under the warming day, twisting its tired wood with a yawn as it lays down to rest and preempts the cool change of an afternoon wind. The deck has seen many gatherings, many families and friends all seated in an ever evolving rotation of tables and chairs, all laughing, crying, talking. These people grow themselves, wilting over a time and then one day leaving to be replaced by someone else.
The deck wilts too, much more slowly than the people but it does all the same. The trees, the house, they all grow tired, they all age. Only the earth below, the silent cool mud untouched by the sun, seems to be ageless. The patient face of this day that lays beneath us all and joins us in these moments of celebration, lifting us upward so we may see the sky and then one day quietly cradling us as our eyes close to rest.
The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the hills and the light of the sky now hung low.
Behind a copse of trees this light cast shadows across the backyard as the brick pathway now took on a rippling coil of shadowed tendril. A fragmented stream almost completely broken by the low tide; these shadows played softly with life, they were outlined by the golden glow of the departing sun, they shot over the afternoon and illuminated each of the voices in simplicity. The earth appeared to float in this shining hour, flooded in the full brilliance of life, every object connected in sunlight and every moment complete. Five friends, laughing with jovial carelessness: they’ve had these conversions before, they’ve shared these jokes, told these stories, but for them time stands still: time ambles upward almost appearing to not pass, almost appearing to allow these hours as gratis but yet drifting all the same. All too quickly they appear and then pass, the arc of their lofty arrow striking the heart of tomorrow and stamping today as only a memory.
The world glows in this moment.
Canvassed by the cerulean infinite, diminutive clouds hang like castles over the world below and are all the same highlighted by the pastels of fire and stillness: streaks of ever-changing brilliance sprawling across the bank and embering in the half-light; no bottle or cage could capture these espers of sunlight that drift so free above us. The world unfolded itself before them and in the blooming of boundlessness they chose to simply exist.
Beer in a wine glass and the pull of the western winds blowing the fragrance of dry grass across the dwindling day. The panels of the grey corrugated roof above pops and clicks as the night lifts itself from the hills.
A wooden bird spins its merry wings in an ardent circle as it dangles in the wind upon a fishline and spinner. The small carving rattles and rocks as the wind pulls past, darting to the side of an errant paper towel caught in this sudden gust and now untethered by gravity. Only the moss by the leaking garden tap grows recalcitrant of this afternoon, abashed of the din it retreats into the cracks of the brick path and longs for the quiet of winter; even the still of this season remains boisterous, pensive becomes grand and every moment seems to grow tall.
A fluorescent glow winks into existence above the verandah: drawing itself from stuttering flashes and reluctant illumination, the glow settles and holds the day longer in a bubble of artificial pause. Mosquito coils are lit and the laughing grows detracted, as care for the neighbors finally comes into consideration.
Five friends sit at a table and let time slip from their fingers. The night is warm.
J.McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 