Final days of August breathe autumn around us and there is a melancholy that accompanies each cool evening breeze. Fireflies flicker at dusk while we sit at the white wooden picnic table, trying try to find them before their flashes reveal their whereabouts. I sit with family and friends from faraway shores who have stopped by to visit, exchanging details about how our lives have changed since they left this hamlet.
Despite their distance during the year, a deep bond exists, wrapped in memories, fortified by a genuine amity, a kindred spirit of being on the same page that happened at first meeting, developed over the years as colleagues and has now matured into deep, lasting ties that even distance cannot dissolve. And yet, so many question the existence of ‘spirit’. It is here among the yellowing leaves of August, in the suburban backyard caught in the breath of autumn.