The creek flows freely now after many frozen months iced over. Trickling along a sandy bottom it pushes its way downstream into the swimming hole, tumbling over a waterfall nestled between two high banks, kudzu covered on one side, with a tall oak tree on the other and a log bridge overhead.

Above all this, the sky is crystal blue and cloudless. A warm breeze rustles grass and leaves creating a whisper of natural music audible only to the very young and very old.

As I sit here upon the log bridge, equidistant from the two paths on either bank that lead in opposite directions, my legs dangle over the edge. The sound of trickling water dances upward to my ears, an illusion of fairies at play.

So enticing is the pool below. Crystal clear, it beckons me to leap free of the bonds that tie me to caution, an invitation to plunge wholly and freely back into the joy of childhood and summer.

Then I awaken and I cast my eyes on nurses and machines and realize that I am old and that summer has slipped away forever.