My Magic Summer

Prologue

Prologue

I was seventeen (almost) in the summer of 1994 when they came for me. I don’t mean that in a threatening, monstrous way. More romantic, but not romantic like you see in Hallmark cards and homecoming dance. Not as straightforward a love story as that, though I certainly learned a thing or two about passion, and the light taste of Iluna’s kiss will never leave my lips. I mean romantic in a breathtaking, transcendent way. Something spiritual. Something real. Romantic like the great old adventures, stories so grand and fantastic that your heart pounds and your blood races and calling it romantic feels right.

Romantic like a warm summer evening in that magic hour between day and night we call dusk. The fireflies are out, and you walk out onto the porch, and breathe in the air, so fresh and clean without the dwindling sun. Then you look up, and the silver moon, that awesome glowing giant, has risen, and you’re speechless. You can’t say a word. But that’s okay because you don’t have to. There’s nothing that needs to be said and no words that can describe it.

That kind of romance.

When I say “moon maidens” came for me, what do you think of? Do you think of witches? Druids, perhaps? Fair Celtic beauties in sheer white dresses, thin, or nothing at all?

Closer. The same solar system anyway, if not the right planet.

It’s still there, of course, that glistening jewel in the sky, some nights waxing, some waning, some new. And sometimes it’s full. When it’s full, so am I. My heart rises, and my breath quickens. It’s as if I’m under a spell. I’m a werewolf in love. A few nights a month, I walk on stardust, eyes aglow, and I hear faint echoes of their heavenly hums when I look up, past the stars, into Heaven and the silver round face of God.

So, I look forward to moonrise.

And when I see it, I remember. I remember every vivid detail of The Magic Summer. I remember the joy, the wonder, the awe. I remember the sweet and the sour, the hot days and endless nights. I remember the sweat, the laughs, the tears, the fear and trembling, passion and desire. I remember remembering.

Most of all, I remember them. Those strange, beautiful moon maidens, and how in all the realms of Heaven and Earth, they came down to the little town of Still Bayou, Texas, and of all the souls in the cosmos, they had touched mine. Whenever I’m feeling down, or low, or as though I don’t matter, I remember they chose me. Sensual, bewitching Iluna; flighty, ethereal Eriu; and motherly, glorious Cassiopeia.

Iluna. Eriu. Cassiopeia. Those are the names I know for joy, wonder, hope.

And when I remember them, my heart leaps and my soul quakes. To remember something so sweet and magical, something out of a fairy tale but oh so real. All the beauty comes back to me, all the joy, and once again I’m light as air. Once again, I touch the surface of the moon.

And then I weep.