Pierre August Renoir – Chestnut Tree In Bloom (1881)
Today was one of those days where the incessant rays of the sun bounced off everything, and dazzled the eyes beneath a clear azure sky. You could call it the zenith of all morning summer skies. The sun rays were hot to warm the skin just so, but not burn the surface. It was as if the sun’s vengeance to scorch the entire world had diminished, and decided instead to tuck Gaia in with her warm water bottle. Even the horrible humidity was in control of itself. I didn’t turn into a sweaty mess. The usual amount of ceaseless complaints was noticeably absent from the people around me.
The clouds were not of the fluffy variety, but of the sky-sweeping kind. Think of the milky froth sitting on top of your mocha or latte drink, or the carefully-daubed paint on Renoir’s paintings. A soft shimmer enveloped the edges around the leaves of silent, silvery trees, making one feel as if they were lightly treading the grounds of a dream, instead of the real world. Perhaps because of the seemingly illusory beauty of the sky, there was a haunting melancholy that I secretly savoured throughout the day. It felt too good to be true. Who wants to wake up from a beautiful daydream like this?
But the inevitable always happens. Another lovely summer sky gone, just like that. I didn’t take any pictures of the gorgeous, lilting sky. There wasn’t any need to. We can’t bring anything with us when we step off this earth for the next stop. Memories are good enough for me, even if they end up fuzzy around the edges for the years to come.
© Zelda Reville