The sun, an emblazed orange, a bit too bright before resting for the day. They say the setting sun always shines brightest , scorching the eyes ; just like the dying lamp, the flame shooting up angrily, one last time before the complete darkness. The wind rustling through the leaves and tall grasses and whooshing past one’s ears, a dizzying exhilaration, like the soft humming of bees. The sun continues to play hide-n-seek with twilight zone, its soft warm caress on the face of a 5 year old. Was she 5? or maybe 6. In her memory was the never ending field, a rush of adrenaline to cover it from one point to other, no obstruction slowing her down,just a gush of wind to plunge through.
To be able to reach the forbidden point and run back, that was the sole objective. This was the end of the field for her, because she was not allowed to cross the line beyond which lay an even bigger field and a waterscape. She never liked playing with the other kids, or the over-sized pink plastic ball. She would run, at times turning her head back at the figures on the park bench, growing smaller with every step forward, the tumbling and trotting and jumping, the abrupt taste of the grass, mud and salty tears, the wind the sun and the world going round and round and the sheer happiness of a breathless halt.
She knew wherever she went, no matter what she does, there is a set of anxious eyes from the park bench, following her, waving at her and keeping her safe and happy.