Our paddles dip effortlessly into the creek, water dripping smoothly with each stroke, small waves rippling with the ease of flapping butterfly wings, as our canoe disturbs the stillness. We don’t speak. The others are further down, far from earshot. We don’t dare interrupt nature’s holy hush of symphonic praises.

               Cicadas buzz- funny looking creatures clinging and crawling slowly across bark, leaving behind their crunchy little shells to be discovered by an awestruck young child. Birds flit between trees, rustling branches and leaves, calling to one another perfectly on-key. As soon as one finishes singing, yet another chimes in, as if God Himself stood before them conducting their orchestra in a concert hall. Nearly breathless, the sounds of nature caress my rough edges, stress melts away, and I find myself comforted as if wrapped in the arms of a lover.

               Lush green fills the camera frame, spilling over edges with abundance, dripping, pulsing, with chlorophyll. We float silently under old Sycamore trees, their majestic large leaves occasionally fluttering to the ground, trunks ever-growing with ring upon ring of generations. A blue dragonfly lands on the tip of our boat, his thin delicate body radiating a neon iridescent turquoise in the sun, his coloring almost looking more appropriate for a sports car.

               We search for Crinoid fossils, occasionally gasping and sharing one another’s newly discovered tiny treasures. My hand full of shells, rocks, and colorful sea glass, a camouflage toad catches my eye and leaps to safety under several weeds. We comment on a graceful blue heron in the distance as he eyes us with caution, and we barely move, hoping to catch more glimpses of his showy plumage. Monarch butterflies flit and land on a damp patch of earth along the sandbar, and I approach. Dancing upward like confetti, they zoom away leaving trails of yellow and black, circle around, and dive back toward blotches of muddy water.

               I will remember not only our canoeing day on Sugar Creek, but this trip in its entirety. Fireflies blinking in dusk, nightly gathering together along bean fields, corn stalks, and tall grasses. Aged silos covered in ivy, Freedom Cemetery, and sunsets filled with intense fiery oranges, yellows, pinks- color hovering over the horizon, lazily lingering in Indiana’s dependable summer haze. The afternoon we walked through wildflowers- daisies, coneflower, sunflower, thistle, clover, tall grass prairie. You picked a yellow blossom, and I pressed it beneath the pages of my book.

Shadows of clouds on freshly cut grass, Grandpa removing his mask to blow a kiss, afternoons sitting in front porch rockers while talking for hours with Mom. Our fourteen year old Labrador Retriever meanders over to us, hips stiff from arthritis, a dignified face covered in gray, yet filled with faithful, devoted love.

One day later, I re-enter the world of chaos and COVID, voicemails and emails, “We need you to help with this,” new travel restrictions, and the isolation of quarantine. Within my mind, I plunge into memories, instantaneously taking me back to when the cicadas sang. The time we drifted in our canoe under the shade of Sycamores, their canopies protecting my weary soul, reminding me to keep drinking life’s goodness. I silently thank the river banks of Sugar Creek, knowing next summer we will do it all again, the cicadas will buzz, birds will sing, and we will spend an endless summer in one afternoon.