The cries and laughter from the little school in the hollow grew steadily, both in power and passion, until by mid-June they'd become a joyous fanfare.
I remembered that hum, and another June day, far away, when I biked out of Grade 7 for the last time, on an afternoon that sparkled on my tongue like elderflower champagne. I pedalled four miles of fields, forests, and subdivisions, with a stack of schoolwork and a yearbook smelling of fresh ink strapped behind, and endless prospects ahead.
Nothing on Earth is as free, nor heart as full, as a schoolboy riding into summer.
(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountain, copyright RK Henderson. Photo courtesy of Jorge Royan and Wikimedia Commons.)