They sat munching on ripe strawberries and sliced apples, juice trickling and sticking to their chins. Iris talked about how it had been several years ago, the quartet playing at the ornate city hall gardens at night, the men vibrating with their strings, the violinist flinging perspiration from his bow, the children and fireflies running in the deep grass, the adults burrowed deep in memories of the past. She talked about summers at the lake, two miles away, when it was silent and cerulean and serene, and plump fish peacefully navigated the thick reeds, and a cat’s-paw whispered across the deep blue, and the young ones felt it was some other year, with their parents looking wonderfully young, their eyes lighted like small bulbs, electric and full of love. Those were drifting, easy days, nobody rushing and the forest wide open, the sun held in an eternal position. As Iris reached back for memories, they came faster and livelier, and Mira listened in silent curiosity. A bee settled into the grass, resting. The barn stood like an enchanted, old castle, shimmering where the sun caught its light upon it. The tools were on their hands, an iron smell, as they ate the strawberries. The thick odor of the barn blew from their clothes on the winter wind.
Writing month, day twenty-two, word count: 21, 120