Until next time
What’s it been, days? Weeks? Surely not months, right?
It was still summer then, wasn’t it? I suppose it was longer ago than I’d thought. Yes, the wind that came billowing in from the lake was still warm. Warmer than now, at least. My arms were uncovered, my skin absorbing the sun and the smells of grass and sand and water.
There were hints of autumn—too faint to hear, too dim to see. But they were there.
I couldn’t have been the only one who knew there wouldn’t be many more days like this; there were others around me whom I couldn’t help but to think had been called there by the same voice that called me. But far fewer than there had once been. We were sparse, and no one was close enough to recognize my face (if they had known me) or speak to me without shouting (if they had wanted to say anything to me).
And though there were others (a few here, a few there), the wind rushed in around us, filling our ears, wrapping us completely, isolating us all from each other. Yawns, sneezes, and sighs were swept up and blown away before anyone could hear them. Dust from beyond the horizon pelted our faces, made us squint, encouraged us to keep our eyes on our feet.
There were others there, maybe, but they might as well have been miles away.