What time is it? The vinyl couch squeaks underneath my shifting weight as I move to peer outside the sliding door windows. I think it’s the middle of the night, I expect it to be pitch dark but it is not; twilight. Or so my eyes tell me: the moments before the sun has made an appearance.
Just as I’m making sense of the time of day, still way too early to be awake, Sara comes skipping. Skipping? Skipping towards the glass sliding doors that is my view. Past the concrete fountain of half naked water bearing women and cherubs, passed the very large, and very old sprawling walnut tree, her long brunette hair and skirts and all around bohemian splendour flowing and trailing behind her as she makes her way towards me.
Sara does not normally look like this. How long has it been since I’ve seen her last for her hair to be so long?
Before I have time to draw a comparison to Botticelli’s Venus, she is at the door—she bounds in with a toothy grin. She seems so light and as quick as she was here, in my presence, she is gone. Turned around and running in the direction she came. Passed the walnut tree. Passed the fountain.
I chase after her. The ground is cool and damp on my bare feet. But the soon-to-be-morning is warm, and I don’t mind.
What a curious start to the day.
Out of nowhere, Kyle takes my hand and laughs and urges me to hurry up. Through the pines, we dip and duck and scramble. The backyard turning into a hidden forest of wonders. We start a 20-degree ascent, and as if—maybe we have?— entered an alternate world, there are people of all ages, attired in turn of the twentieth-century clothing, scattered here and there. Everyone is so awake, energized, exhilarated. And happy.
You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.
Kyle and I never break pace to stop and fully take in all the oddly dressed people laughing and skipping. Women and girls in petticoats and floor length dresses and skirts, men in suspenders and trousers a la Jack Dawson.
Odder still are the never-ending water slides suspended on the hill to our right. Teams of people riding inner tubes down the course, never getting wet. Looks like fun!
And we keep running, never out of breath, never tiring, always running up the incline after Botticelli’s Sara.
There are a lot of nevers here in this everlasting never ending space. And I like it.