Renaissance

We laid in the tall grass, blanketed by shadows cast by the trees around us, and the setting sun’s red rays blazed through the branches and lit up our faces. Time did not exist that day. Our fingers were intertwined and we spoke about our thoughts; they radiated around us and sometimes caught us by surprise. Chris told me about his experience while I mentioned my innocence. We felt like William Blake singing his songs. So we sang to our hearts’ desires, letting the world around us hear the contents of our imaginations. Our songs filled the heavy air with philosophy and wishes; Chris wished for simplicity and I asked for more time.

When I made my wish, Chris untangled our hands and sat up with a stern look of disappointment painted on his face. I didn’t expect such a reaction, so I shot up and turned to him with a glance dripping of anticipation to find out what I had done wrong. To my surprise, he initially uttered nothing more than a languid sigh of inability. Chris could not, at first, find the words.

A strong silence grew between us while the world’s sounds settled down to a quiet roar and the wind ceased to rustle the leaves on the trees. The sky got darker and darker with each passing second. Finally, after minutes upon minutes had fluttered by without a care for curfews or bedtimes, drops of brutally cold water slid from clouds and drenched him with compassionate thoughts and a severe need to show me his mind and appreciation for time.

“The time allotted to us right now,” he said, “is not important.” Confused at the statement, I slipped back several inches in isolation from the piercing words. “Seconds, minutes, hours; when the sun rises and when it falls hard below the horizon; the tick of the watch on your wrist; none of that matters. This is what matters.” He looked me dead in the eye, drew toward me, and kissed my cheek. “Our time is limited, yes, but don’t think on it. Live for the experience rather than how long it takes to get there.”

A smirk of ecstasy was glued on my face; the words hit me like a ton of bricks and woke me up to what I’d been missing by worrying about time. Chris noticed my admiration for his incite and he said, “Keep your fingers crossed, ‘cause all we’ve got is slipping past us.” So I locked my hope tightly in my hands, and I kept my fingers crossed. I kept ‘em crossed like arthritis was my passion. And even now, my hope lies comfortably in my palms, safely hidden from fears of losing track of something that really needs not the slightest deliberation. That day, to me, was a long awaited breath of fresh air, and any other clichés one can list. That day was my renaissance.