August Symphony

It was a long day. The longest day of the year. The air conditioner broke that morning, and so the hot, August Sun mixed with the heat of the flames from the smoldering, greasy grill made the day unbearable. The food must have tasted like sweat that day from all the sweat which dripped off of one, dirty, underweight cook from open to close.

He was miserable. The most miserable day of his life. His parents had kicked him out, too drunk or high or just plain dicks to care for their only son. He couldn't really think of any friends he had; it seemed everyone he knew only cared about themselves. Today, his boss yelled at him for sweating too much. "Don't drink water!" the boss spat.

He wanted nothing more than for the day to end. He would leave work at last, the sun would be gone, and he would ride his bike until he found a comfortable bench to sleep on for the night. Maybe tonight, one of his so-called friends would let him take a shower and wash away the sweat for only part of his day's wage.

The hours passed slowly. He clung to the idea of a nice, cool shower. It was all he thought about all day. His throat scratched painfully, dreaming longingly of cold water. His muscles screamed for hydration. His skin prickled with hope of cleanliness, of escape from the grease and sweat which suffocated his every pore.

But at last, he was free. The sun set. He clocked out, got his bike, and rode a block before his muscles refused to work any longer. He collapsed. His bike smashed his right leg. His head spun. His only thought was to get out of the street, but the thought was soon overpowered by the desperate need for water, for rest, for basic survival. The world blurred into darkness. He blacked out.

He awoke to humming. It was only later that he realised the strangeness of what had awoken him. A girl, perhaps a bit younger than he, was gently cleaning his face, but what awoke him was not the chill of the water but the softness and beauty of her gentle voice. It was a peaceful song, a lullaby. He didn't really wake up, but instead found himself lost in a dream.

He dreamt of a pleasant place. Soft grass, bright flowers, rolling hills. The sound of running water could be heard. The stream was singing something beautiful and sweet. He decided to go to the stream and bathed himself in it. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. Birds sang. A gentle breeze blew through the trees, adding the voices of the trees to the symphony.

He woke up on a swingset. He couldn't remember how he got there, only that he had had the most wonderful dream. Then he noticed something in his hand: it was a piece of paper. On it was written, in delicate handwriting, one word: "Smile." Confused, he turned it over. There was nothing on the back either. He scratched his forehead, and in doing so, unintentionally touched his hair. It felt clean. He ran his hands through his hair suddenly. Yes, his hair was clean. He touched his face; clean too.

He remembered his dream more now. There had been a pretty girl cleaning the dirt and sweat and grease off of him. Only she wasn't a dream. Perhaps she was an angel. I was sent an angel, he thought in awe. It was the greatest day of his life; he smiled.