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Strawberry Moon  Our story tonight is called Strawberry Moon and it’s a story about dusk on the porch on one of the first warm evenings of summer. It’s also about the lit window of a neighbours house, the quiet tick of a clock in the hall and a good book before bed. I was getting ready for bed, padding around in my slippers and filling a glass with water at the sink when I suddenly wanted to step outside one more time to feel the night air around me. I set my glass on the counter and went to the door and pushed it open. After months of feeling chilled at night, rushing to get under the covers and warm up, it felt like a dream to step onto the porch and be surrounded by soft air that met my skin like perfectly warmed water. I didn’t need a sweater. As the breeze blew, it didn’t chill my ears or neck. I was just comfortable. I walked to the edge of the porch and sat down on the top step in my pyjamas, propping my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I closed my eyes for a time, listening to the night time buzz of insects and the songs of drowsy birds. It was dusk. The street lights had come on and the sky was that lovely purple that only lasts for a half hour or so before the full darkness sets in. In the house across the street, a few lights were on here and there and I was comforted to think of my neighbours finishing up the dinner dishes, stretching out on the sofa to watch something or tucking in early with a book to read. Farther down the street I could hear a screen door banging, a barking and ’s voices as they came in after a long day of play and I was sure that up and down the block others like me were sitting on their porches, the porch light off so as not to attract the bugs and just enjoying the peace of the gloaming. I sat there for quite a while, not a moment of it bored or distracted, just letting the breeze waft over me and thinking of all the summer evenings that I had done this since I was a . We’d had a swing on the front porch and at least a few times a year I’d been allowed to drag my sleeping bag out, along with a pillow from the bed, a flashlight and a book - and though I rarely made it through the night before being chased in by mosquitos or just wanting my own bed, I loved those little adventures and would beg to do it again the very next night. Finally I felt my eyelids getting heavy and I pushed myself up from the steps. I took one last long breath of the night air and looked up at the stars now bright above me. The neighborhood was quiet. Most of the houses with just a single light on here or there. I stepped inside and locked the door behind me and shuffled back to the kitchen for my glass of water. You know those moments when water tastes so good? That was now. I wondered if it was the half hour or so that I’d sat on the step. Had it cleared my palette, both metaphysically and literally? I did feel like a clean slate. I’d left a colander of strawberries in the sink after I’d rinsed them and I brought my water glass with me to pick through them. When I’d buy a carton of strawberries in February I almost always regret it. They come out tasting something like sour pink ice cubes. But these ones that I’d picked myself from the patch on my allotment, smelled more like strawberries than those others had ever tasted. They were small, about the size of the end of my thumb and they were soft and meant to be enjoyed as soon as they ripened. I took a bite and it tasted so good I nearly laughed aloud. Truly sweet and tender, melting in my mouth. I ate half the colander full right there, listening to the grandfather clock tick in the hall and blissfully thinking of very little. Finally, I tipped the rest of the berries into a bowl and set them in the fridge for the next day, refilled my glass and headed for the stairs. When I passed the big clock in the hall, I stopped, realising that it probably needed to be wound. It was an eight day clock meaning that the main spring would lose power after seven days and need to be wound on the eighth. That was a bit too much math for me so I just wound it every Saturday night. I set my glass down on the shelf and by the light of the streetlamp shining through the window, I opened the lower door and took the small winding key from its bag. When I’d first found this old clock wedged into the back of the coat closet, I thought that the key was lost. But when I’d taken it to the horologist, she’d shown me how it was still safe in its keeping place, waiting to be put to work again. The clock work on the other hand was missing a few pieces and had to be taken apart completely, cleaned in clock cleaning fluid and painstakingly put back together with replacement parts along the way. But it ran perfectly now. I opened the bevelled glass cover on the clock face and fitted the winding key into its spot and began to wind. I’d been timid about this part when I’d first taken up winding duties, having always heard that it was “dangerous” to overwind a clock but she’d assured me that it couldn’t actually BE overwound and that overwinding was likely clockmaker speak for “it’s broken but I can fix it.” So when the key was tight, I took it out and hung it back on its peg. I closed the glass cover and looked at the moondial, a feature not all clocks have but luckily this one did which showed the position of the moon in the sky. A full moon was just a few days away and I smiled, still tasting the sweetness on my tongue, remembering that this moon was called the Strawberry Moon. In my bedroom the windows were open and it felt a bit like stepping back onto the porch. Cool, sweet fresh air and my bed awaited me. Not wanting to turn on the light and in tribute to those front porch swing sleepovers of my childhood, I fished in a drawer until I found a small flashlight and propped up in bed to read my book till i fell asleep. Nothing Much Happens |
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