Harkness Bells Stir a Writer’s Memories in the Summer Rain
A moment of quiet reflection turned deeply emotional for one writer as the Harkness Bells rang out at 5:52. The sound triggered a flood of memories, blending past and present in a single, poignant instant. Surrounded by the soft decay of spring-summer rain and fading fog, the scene felt both fleeting and eternal.
The morning began with a walk through shifting weather—rain that felt like the edge of summer, fog lifting like white dye spreading in still water. Near Phelps gate, the writer gathered hornbeam leaves and their delicate, winged nutlets, tucking them carefully into the pages of a book. The ground beneath was uneven, the rubber soles of their shoes worn thin, pressing pebbles into their feet with every step. Nearby, the scent of rotting cherries hung thick in the damp air.
The Harkness Bells marked more than just the hour; they became a bridge between what was and what is. The hornbeam leaves, the lark’s cry, the rotting cherries—each detail held a story, a piece of a life both remembered and still unfolding. As the fog cleared, the writer carried those fragments forward, lighter for having paused to listen.
