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Do you ever get that feeling on a late summer day at the end of a long summer when it has hardly been summer at all when suddenly you’re hit by that special gentle feeling like spring has just sprung, when you can finally walk the dog early in the morning without wearing a windbreaker and you can just about feel the buds bursting and things growing, and it didn’t matter it wasn’t really spring since the feeling in the air reminds you of those dozen or so days that stick with you which like scent-memory which are triggered by a certain temperature and breeze and maybe pollen count and all of a sudden you’re ten years old again, kicking a stone down the street on a Saturday morning on the way to the park where you’ll meet up with your posse and catch water-skimmers and skip stones and then go play hide-and-seek in the graveyard and buy and eat forbidden candy and lie on your back on the grass in the afternoon looking at shapes in the clouds knowing without knowing, even though you’re only ten, that this is one of those few absolutely perfect days that you’ll be granted in your life, or the time when you’re sixteen and it seems like it’s Saturday again – there’s just something about Saturdays – and you start up your car, roll down the windows and drive up into the mountains, driving until the pavement ends and then until the tarred roads end and then a little further and you park just below timberline and hike along a stream that’s pure snowmelt and so cold you can’t put your hand in for more than a few seconds and on one side you feel the cold coming off the stream as it races down the mountain and on the other side the warmth coming from the huge fields of blue and yellow wildflowers as they soak up sunlight and the water is so clear you can see every brown and rainbow trout even as they think they’re safe under the rock ledges and you find a rock to sit on and you know that this light, this pure air is the best it can ever get and except for a chance perfect day which may come along in the future, this is as good as it gets, and then with a few more of those perfect days sprinkled in, seemingly rarer and rarer as you get older and responsibilities rarely leave you along, years go by and kids grow up and pets die and loves grow and fade and grow again and nothing is ever quite right and all you can really hope for is a few minutes of peace and quiet when the air feels right and it feels like spring and you remember how good life can be and you know that perfection can exist in this crazy universe, if only for a few minutes or a rare Saturday, and that’s enough?
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