Metaphor

The evening shoved the afternoon quickly aside, and we, too busy with brats and burgers, never noticed. Before any of us noticed the fading light, Tim slipped into the shed of the garage, determined to distract us from the fleeting time. It was calm in the backyard as light laughter filtered through the ivy tressed patio onto the lawn. Erin sat gingerly on the swing too small for any adult and ran her toes through the soft grass. It was a peace filled afternoon.

Abruptly, Tim clashes onto the scene, arms spread with a wide smile. Four broad ceramic balls balanced in his hands. The light is quickly slipping away, and everyone is watching this oddity. With grace and precision, Tim tosses the spheres into the air where they catch the last of the light. Up and down they frolic, bouncing playfully into and out of Tim's nimble hands. His eyes are focused on something other than the balls, the figmented strings which hold the world together.

Fixated, we watched. Burgers went cold in our hands. And we never noticed the night settle in.