Walking along Ocean avenue and turning onto Avalon Street there is an old familiar chill in the air. it was just a week or two ago when the sun was screaming its heat on me showering me with its arid extra hot flames. This is the time of year when the green begins to turn to brown.
I walk towards the lake and there is an old familiar crunching sound beneath my feet.
Two young boys sitting, fishing by the lake – water heading west this time of day as if running to the sun as it begins to spill upon this town like a broken yoke. The sun’s colors; orange, red streaked with grayish blue clouds falling and spreading its colors magically upon the roof tops, lakes, trees and even through the windows of the passing trains. A sunburst of a multitude of colors.
The limitless beauty of the Master’s hand never seems to inspire feelings of peace, sudden solutions to once complications and a keener understanding that life – in all its ugly colors can sometimes be overwhelmed by the beauty of His artistic scenes of nature.
This is the time of summer when the beaches empty early, Except for the college girls sitting in sweatjackets talking, hood over head and embracing their upright folded legs. And the college boys hamming it up as the toss footballs to each other as a deeper introduction to each other.
The waves roll over and over again – infinity in their grasp.
I remember when I was a kid I would feel the butterflies inside my stomach knowing that the time to go back to school was approaching. The girls you first met in June are heading back to where girls go when they have stolen your heart.
The school clothes were purchased or handed down from your older siblings. Haircuts were given and old friends come to visit to have a catch or just to catch up.
On the quiet streets the sounds of baseball blaring from transistor radios can be heard. Dueling voices – Bob Murphy and Phil Rizzuto – calling the holy games as the boys of summer are either getting ready to go home or on to the playoffs. The Spring training field of dreams have turned from bright green to brown, just like the leaves on the ground. Just like that girl who held you tight in July seemed to let go slowly as August winded down.
That Labor Day comes and you go for a walk, alone. As a song from July plays in your head, the scent of her perfume still lingers as you walk with no destination – just trying to forget.
Suddenly a memory bursts into your mind and you smile.
Even through the green leaves have fallen to the ground – they are awash in a multitude of colors – like the photos of scenes forever in your heart.
Freddy Zalta 