The Campfire Song

It's late. And very dark. I can't say how late it is, though I am sure it is well past midnight. I hobble down the wet, grassy hill in slippery shoes and salute the few who remain.

It's becoming chilly out. A chilly night is Mother Nature's clever way of reminding us that summer has a tendency to not last forever. As the chilliness of tonight's night indicates, this particular summer will be no different and is coming to a fast close.

I sit down by the bonfire that once was and sigh. Sighs follow in response and agreement.

The four of us left stare at the stars.

It's funny, really, the moments we tend to remember. The moments that come to mean something beyond a good time and hearty laugh. Laughs can be revisited, some even grow with time. But there are moments that one realizes, once they have come to a close, will never be experienced again. And there is a painful beauty in that.

I wish it were enough to cherish the memory. But there was a comfort in the moment I miss.

A comfort in the silence and in the collective realization that we were each as equally terrified as the person sitting next to us. Terrified of change, of the unknown, of the looming, intangible future.

And I can remember all I want to, but I will never feel the same way I felt that night.

We just talked, really. About nothing in particular. Nothing to relate here. But that particular night stays as one of the moments I miss the absolute most.

Coupled with the comfort was a desperation. A need to latch onto this comfort and the common ground we had found so effortlessly sitting around the burning embers at the center of our four point circle. A need to tell our story, to be understood, to throw words onto the embers and watch them make some sort of spark, no matter how small. A need to make sense of ourselves.

I've never been so contented yet emotionally overwhelmed.

And, hours later, while we climbed the wet, grassy hill together and headed for our cars we were quiet. And we said our silent good-byes.