When the Sun Stood Still: A Short Story

The heat rose like a living, breathing thing, expanding across the land as the day brightened by degrees.  The early morning clatter of the birds faded, perhaps muted by the competing sounds of awakening life. 

The boys began to stir; a light film of perspiration already covered their brows.  It was going to be another Midwest scorcher.  The glare of the sun slid fluidly, like liquid gold, beneath the shades in their bedroom, casting glowing fingers across their limbs. 

Tommy woke first, flinging an arm out and kicking the bed sheet aside.  Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook his twin brother Bobby. 

"C'mon, no more school, remember?  Let's go fishing!"

Bobby woke from almost complete somnolence to alertness in one abrupt moment. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” he responded, leaping out of bed.  

Both boys were towheads with fair skin and freckled faces. When awake, they were in perpetual motion, the rough-and-tumble play typical of ten-year olds.

   

A sense of excitement spurred the boys into action as they scrambled for shorts, sneakers and yesterday's socks, discarded in a ball under their beds. 

They raced each other down the stairs, accompanied by shouts of joy, grabbed their fishing poles from the back porch and were gone.  The slam of the screen door punctuated their departure.

Ellen stood in the boys' bedroom doorway, hands thrust deep in her jeans pockets.  The commotion had been like the burst of a machine gun, shattering her nerves.  The sudden and complete silence that followed helped restore her equilibrium. 

At 27, Ellen looked much older.  Her sandy hair was pulled severely back into a ponytail.  Her slender build and pale complexion made her look frail and vulnerable. 

"God how I love them,” she thought to herself, "but sometimes it's just so hard to cope with their energy and exuberance.” 

She leaned against the doorframe, shoulders slumped, as if she needed the solidness of the wood to keep her erect and connected to her surroundings.  The tiredness in her eyes spoke of hard times and lost hope. 

She loved summertime, the illusion that the sun is standing still and the future is keeping its distance.  It was as if the planet had come lazily to a stop enabling her to hear the buzzing of the dragonflies and breathe in the sweet smell of the wisteria and honeysuckle in the yard. 

The long, slow days made her feel there was time for everything.  She watched hypnotically as the twin model airplanes, suspended from the ceiling in the boys' room, slowly turned in half arcs, moving on air currents neither seen nor felt. 

She daydreamed about her own childhood summers on her parent's farm.  She remembered how the period from June to September seemed an eternity.  Kids were free to just be themselves, without school to tell them who they were.  You could spend an entire morning stone skipping on the pond, watching them bounce off the surface of the water before sinking. Or lie on your back in a field of clover watching clouds scud across the sky, and maybe later go for a Good Humor.  You could lose your watch and not miss it for days. 

She moved slowly to the boys’ beds and bent to straighten the disheveled covers. Glancing up at the wall, her eyes fastened on a picture of a clipper ship, sails billowing as it rode the open sea.  She remembered fondly a similar print, which had hung over her bed as a girl.  Her's had the figure of Christ in the background, with outstretched arms, and the motto, "He is the Captain of my ship, the Master of my fate,” stenciled on the bottom. 

The memory caused her to unconsciously straighten her back as a gentle smile graced her face, softening its lines.  She let out a sigh as the heat of the day warmed her bones and the light pressed down on her, bringing her focus back to the present. 

Life was somehow bearable once more, perhaps only for a few hours, but right now, that was all that mattered.