Sometimes, when I get a moment to relax, I sit outside. I look at nothing in particular, but I see everything clearly.

I listen to the leaves of the trees moving gently in the summer breeze. I smell the wet grass drying in the sun from an afternoon rain.

Nature clears my mind of all thought and I’m not even aware of my own existence. I am full of emptiness like a weightless vapor that floats into the sky and drifts along to nowhere.

Sometimes, when I’m at a beach, I see animal clouds. A large dog lying on its back with its four legs pointed to the sky above moves beyond the ocean waves. A dragon spreads it wings and frolics over the surf. I blink my eyes three times and the animals are gone, but an hour later I see a bear looming above the dunes behind me.

Sometimes, when I stand in line at a grocery store on a Saturday evening, I admire the young man or woman or the senior citizen working the register. It’s by no means a glamorous job and the truth be known, many would turn up their noses at a cashier’s job. Yet, here they are working on a weekend night when their friends or anyone else their age might be kicking back with some free time.

Sometimes, I wish I could wave a magic wand and rid this country of its hatred toward certain races and cultures. Common sense should tell us all that the melting pot of skin color and ethnicity is going to get larger and larger so what will prejudice accomplish? Learn to live with each other and stay true to the words, “indivisible and with justice for all.”

Sometimes, I get a compliment from a former student I taught or athlete I coached and I feel undeserving of the praise. Then I realize the enormous impression a teacher and a coach have upon young people that, whether it be good or bad, will last long after they grow into adulthood. “Wow,” I say to myself. “All I did was listen to them, care about them, and give them the best from me very time I entered the classroom or walked onto the field and now I understand.”

Sometimes, I take a glance at my son who has grown into a young man and my daughter who now is a young lady and I think of these words that someone once wrote. “I absolutely adore my big kids. But there are times I remember their littleness with a force that steals the breath out of my lungs.”

My son is that little boy kicking a soccer ball from the front yard into a basketball net at the end of the driveway and my daughter is my Guppy who’s 5-year-old eyes opened as wide as they could when she saw Cinderella coming to help her celebrate her birthday.

Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I had grown up in let’s say, California or Vermont. I would have had different friends and fallen in love with different girls. I might have become anything but a teacher and my parents might not have had the health and money issues that plagued them their entire married lives.

Sometimes, while lying in bed, I’ll open my eyes and look out the window and try to see the exact moment the dark night sky becomes the light of a brand- new day, a miraculous moment that commonly happens every 24 hours.

Sometimes, my mind flashes back to summer days gone by when we jumped on our bikes and took to the streets like road warriors on a mission. Fish the pond. Play baseball at the park. Ride the fields to destinations unknown. Drop the bikes and walk the woods in search of glass deposit bottles we took to the store where our nickels were spent on ice cream pops. Stop at the back of the school. Sit on the swings and finish our treats. Sneak onto Mr. Boyle’s yard. Pump the ice cold well water into our mouths and walk away with our faces and T-shirts soaked for the trip back home. Nothing needed to be said as we split our caravan into different directions. The unspoken plan was to meet the next morning and ride the summer wind again.

Sometimes, I wonder how I stepped from the foot pedals of my bike to the gas pedals in my cars and then to this age so quickly. One minute I’m flippin’ baseball cards against the cellar wall with my buds and the next minute, I’m flippin’ burgers on the grill for my kids. My mind is thick with memories of picking sweet black berries from bushes when I was 10 and chasing orange monarch butterflies through fields of gold behind my house.

I ask myself do I really miss those days gone by?

Sometimes.

Rich Strack can be reached at richiesadie11@gmail.com.