His coughing became worse that November as he sat in his dimly lit apartment with a barely perceptible fire catching its, what appeared to be, last breath. No one called or came to visit any more. The days were short and monotonous. Life wore on.
But it didn’t matter. His thoughts were elsewhere. And the more he remembered, the warmer it became, and the apartment turned into a scene of a bustling frenzy, just like many years ago.
He always loved the beginning of August as it represented the last month of the summer vacation. Usually, it was filled with warmth and fun.
Not the least of it was the anticipation of going on a trip, of sharing those long days with his sister and other miscellaneous and sundry kids they’d meet on the beach or at breakfast where they stayed. His parents were young, full of life and were just as excited about August as he was. And, where they went, it was always a place a bit different, more exciting and filled with more surprises than the one last year.
Part of the excitement was deciding what to bring with him. It was simple, really: his bag would be filled with balls of all sizes, plastic buckets and shovels for playing with sand, a car or two to race on the breakfast table while waiting for the food and the like.
He knew that his parents and sister felt the same and, as if by magic, the day they’d pile up in their station wagon there was always a pretty, sunny, warm day. It sure seemed that way.
His parents never made it clear where they were going but it didn’t matter. What mattered is that they were going and that it would be by a lake, sea or the ocean. In his mind’s eye he always expected the color of the sky to match that of the water for the entire month of August. He loved anything blue.
Ahhhh, driving through a maze of highways to get there. He thought his dad was a magician guiding the car and his mom was a genius to make sense of those brightly colored maps unfolded on her lap. Would he ever learn to fold them neatly, he wondered?
On each of those summer trips there was a benefit. It involved staying somewhere along the way. It was, essentially, like taking an extra bite of a delicious chocolate cake, maneuvered when his mother wasn’t watching. It packed that much punch.
Many times, it was a motel along the way, always with a swimming pool, which afforded him time to practice the beach skills he needed for the following month. Sometimes, however, it would be a mountain cabin among pine trees which emitted that intoxicating smell. On those occasions, he enjoyed the green of the forest.
They always stayed in one room on those overnight stays and told stories from bed until everyone fell asleep.
by Mike Djordjevich
Address :
321 High School Road #303
Bainbridge Island
WA 98110
USA
Telephone : +1 661 645 5572
Email : mike@mdj-cpa.com
Website : http://www.mdj-cpa.com