Seven o’clock sunshine is tangible magic. It filters through tree limbs like shimmering veils, it drowns the grass in glittering gold, and it carries memories within its late summer rays. 

It reminds me of what it’s like to be alive. Tells me to hush and breathe and smell the lavender or the freshly cut grass from up the street. It ushers me down the gravel path by my cousin’s house to pick blackberries, or down by the open space at home to run in the sprinklers. Child me runs before my eyes, she’s five, seven, twelve, fifteen—she’s messy, too, dripping with lemonade and laughter. Nostalgia tugs at me, but I don’t cry. I don’t pay it any attention. The sun is setting, the crickets are chirping, and I know summer is slipping away. I can’t let my tears blur the transition. 

I walk barefoot on the grass, I bask in the sun, and I whisper compliments to the flowers I pass along the street. I let the blackberry juice stain my hands and run freely down my chin, I let myself laugh and take up space, and I allow the sun to bathe me in its wake. I live in the present, the now.

“I am here,” I say to nobody. Not I was, not I will. The lavender is still vibrant and sweet, the soil beneath me is tender, and the blackberries are ripe and bulging. The smells of rain and soil linger in the air, the sunlight filtering through the trees resembles the color of honey. August is alive and there’s still time before the bitter nip of winter arrives to cut the days short. 

I lay in the grass, back against the sprawling roots of the trees towering above. Hues of green and brown surround me as the breeze softly rustles the leaves. Wildflowers sway while the rush of the creek echoes in the distance. The smell of pine and berries fill the air.

“I am here,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands are calloused and sticky, patches of magenta stain my fingers, and there’s dirt underneath my fingernails. A mourning dove coos in the trees above, a dog barks in the distance, and my being aches as warmth floods my body. 

For a fleeting moment, the past doesn’t linger, I don’t fantasize of the future, or the passage of time and the changing of seasons. None of it pricks me with panic.

I merely exist, I merely am.