Memories
A comfortable morning in the chill of early June. The sun is out, and promises a lovely afternoon. An old man's mug has misted up the window in his nook, and all he sees are misty scenes no matter where he looks. It's been some years, some decades, a millenium in truth; but through the mists he still recalls the springtime of his youth.
The youth he was can see the playground clearly as he sits, and feigns an interest in the class (at least a little bit). The teacher stops mid-sentence to the clangour of a bell; two dozen demons rise as one and scamper forth from hell.
There's chores and supper, washing up, then life begins again; the neighbour kids arrive in droves to play the evening game. It's hide-and-seek tonight I think; perhaps a game of tag. Or cops and robbers, blind man's buff, or something with a flag.
But all the boys are really there because the girls are too. They'd none of them admit it, but it's certain to be true. It spells the end of innocence, though maybe not today. For now it's spring, and everyone's content to simply play.
The evening's warm, far warmer than it ought this time of year. So off they go to see Sharpe's Pond; best take the frogging gear. Some nets and bottles, rubber boots; off to the swimmin' hole. There's frogs a plenty, tadpoles, snakes, and minnows in a shoal.
And can it be! A snapper's caught the eye of Buck the dog. He barks and growls and whines until the thing slides off its log. A perfect springtime evening, who could ask for any more. But all the girls are heading home; young boys are such a bore.
A few more weeks like this and then it's summer holidays! Though this one might just be the last; this is the end of play. When school resumes the kids who left will all return as teens. And even if you could go back, time marches on it seems.
The mist has cleared. The old man stares, but all that he can find are magic shadow moments of the times he's left behind.