The bare dry branches of the oak looking curiously alive and virile, pasted on the hazy August sky. Further down the tree the leaves moving ever so slightly in the feeble breeze, their shadows trembling on the bark, which has been all peeled off from the top of the tree by a hard working woodpecker.
The lazy summer song of the mysterious underground bugs. They have a loud world, a world all of their own – with their own music and news, with their own weather forecast.
The beads of sweat on my dry brown skin, sun rays trying to sneak behind my sunglasses, trying to tickle my eyes and make them smile. Watching the planes glistening high, high above in the sky, I play a little game of imagining their destinations: is it a white-pebbled beach of Greece, a bougainvillea-veiled town of Sicily, a coffee-scented medina of Turkey?
But I’m not there. I’m here in the midst of my fears, of my confusion and despair. In the last few days I have again experienced the all-healing power of true love. I know that gradually it will pull down the prison walls I have so foolishly erected myself and I will find myself standing on top of the hill, marvelling at the wide-open vistas that have always been there.