Mazourine Vera


In the late idle summer of my childhood, I found out where heat spent its nights.


Cold, tired, and dressed in salty soaking clothes, my friends and I hauled horse equipment back into the refurbished stall it was stored in. The burning sun had found its way down the sky, off to terrorise other far away places. The humid air quickly cooled. Tripping over ourselves, we shuffled into the storage room, giggling from the cold and the dark, and one of us fumbled blindly for the light switch on the wall. 


The storage room air greeted us with a puff of warmth, outstretched arms and a slow blinking light that couldn’t decide if it wanted to turn on. The overbearing heat that choked us all throughout the day became a small heaven for us in the few seconds we mechanically folded and put away the bridles. This heat was the same heat we grew accustomed to during the day; it cloaked bodies and filled our lungs, making it difficult to breathe. That heat made us feel like we were being simmered on a stove and was impossible to get rid of, yet this heat was gentle and loving with its touch. Our trembles slowly calmed as we warmed up, and no one said anything, quietly shifting where we stood. 


How could something so hated, so cursed by coaches and children alike, be so sought for, after a quick night swim? There, in the dim corners of a dusty room, it had transformed into something sweet and docile.


Almost unwillingly, we followed the voice of our coach out of the stall and into the blue darkness outside, leaving the heat snuggled in between the saddles behind us. 


In the early spring of my adulthood, I found out where the cold slept during the day.


I had stepped off the deserted main road and onto the dark field with only a phone in my hand to fight the emptiness before me. I hated the dark. A few strides in, and I was surrounded by it. The waist high grass pressed in on all sides. 


Leaning forward, I scoured the packed earthen path for my lost earphone, and instead was greeted with a fresh and crisp pool of air instead. Not finding what I was looking for, I pressed on, wading through the cold. 


I realised then, that the cold had hid from the sun beneath the softly swaying sea of grass and in the soft, earthy tunnels of worms. When the sun set, it quietly seeped up from the soil and shadow, and out onto the streets, bringing the night with it. Yet it lingered here still, its mist encompassing the whole field, playfully lounging between the blades of grass, its tendrils following as I passed by.


Suddenly the chill of the night was welcoming, refreshing and simple. There was no one on that field but me alone and the mist that had awoken from its slumber, tickling my ankles. 


I calmly followed the path deeper into the field, and when I was certain I was in a new area, I doubled back, eyes glued to the path. The grass brushed past me, sleepily wishing me luck. In that moment, the night felt comforting, loving. Even when I found what I was looking for, and stepped onto the brightly lit orange road, the cool freshness of the night followed me, hanging onto my feet, and then finally let go.


Envoyé: 23:10 Mon, 25 March 2024 by : Mazourine Vera age : 19