It has been almost a year since we walked out of my mother’s small, black Honda Sport Fit and into the warm, summer weather. The sun was shining through the green canopy of trees and warmed the skin on our arms and legs. The rock covered ground danced with bouncing shadows.

The gravel crunched beneath my black Converse as we ambled down the path, and I felt the light weight of my phone and glasses in my bag on my shoulder. Everything was still as if it had been caught in a picture frame; the tranquil silence was only interrupted by the swirling chirps and lilting songs of the birds flying among the branches and the croak of grasshoppers in the foliage. We held our breath in wonder as we passed through the woods.

Eventually, the endless path through the woods came to a halt, and we entered the grounds of the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Theater. People were buzzing about, swinging picnic baskets, and desperately searching for bathrooms near the lone building.

The five of us – my mother, one of my best friends, my two friends who were vacationing here with us from France, and I – all quickly retrieved our tickets for the 39 Steps and made our way towards the theatre grounds.

I faintly remember other activities we did over the summer - a long day spent at Six Flags, flailing as rides swerved; a boat ride down the Hudson River, listening to the history; an adventure park for climbing and zip lining in the trees, weighed down by bulky harness straps; and hours spent playing on the trampolines at Bounce, laughing and flipping in the air – but this memory felt more distinct. I can recall almost every detail as we approached the theatre. The sun had disappeared behind the desolate and dense, gray clouds; lanky shadows cut across the deep, green color of the grass; and the mountains stood like soaring, blue giants in the distance. Even without my glasses, I could see the trail that the river followed, winding and twisting along the base of the mountains and reflecting the pale yellow and pink tints in the sky. Not many people were very cautious along the edge of the grounds where there was at least a fifty foot drop.

As I pried my eyes off the scenery before me, I noticed other families were partaking in the enjoyment of the evening. A few were chatting with their friends, some were sightseeing, and others bent over the brick wall near the edge in order to snap better pictures. A handful of people were already outside of the massive, beige tent where they were waiting to be seated. It only took them a few minutes to become antsy about the thunderstorm clouds rolling towards us.

Phones beeped and blared with messages and alarms warning of an impending and imminent storm. Drops of water splashed against hands and hair. Tears transformed into cold pins and needles. The drizzle became a torrent of rain. Buckets of ice water dumped on uncovered heads.

Within seconds, I was drenched to the bone; my light sweatshirt became heavy and sagged against my arms like a second skin. My sopping shoes squeaked and squished with each step I took into the loose, brown water. By the end of the night, my sneakers were painted in a fine, permanent layer of brown mud.

Stagehands prompted us to dash for the stately, mustard yellow house poised a few yards away from the theatre. We were rather close to the entrance.

Lightning shattered the sky, and thunder overpowered the rhythmic beat of the rain. The small, petrified squeals of my friends penetrated my ears through the loudness. I just laughed.

The employees rushed us into the mansion as soon as they had obtained the key, and we were lead into a large, austere room. The only furniture I could see around the swarming mass of bodies in the room was an ancient-looking fireplace, which our small group huddled around. The air was tight and claustrophobic with so many people crammed into one space.

We passed our time in the harsh yellow lighting of the room by distracting my friends from the tempest raging outside. They panicked and thickly held onto the belief that some tragedy was bound to occur even when my mother and I calmly explained to them it was just a rainstorm. Don’t worry, we cooed. It’s just a little rain. Nothing bad will happen.
My mother and I have always had a similar sense of rationality.
After a few minutes, I became enraptured by the window in the corner of the room. It was not even very big; it was only a tiny rectangle in the white wall, rimmed with a glossy, thin ribbon of black. In it I could watch as the rain fell from spectacular heights onto the lawn. I could perceive the microscopic dots descend and elongate into gushing streams that resembled the Hudson. The humid glass became foggy as the rain dribbled down the slippery surface.
Twenty minutes had elapsed before the employees informed us the storm had passed. They hastily ushered us out of the house and into the tent, handing out black garbage bags; we realized why when we found our seats. Since the tent was open to the elements, pools of rain had accumulated in all of the hard, plastic seats, especially my mother’s. Her chair was a few rows away from ours, and she sat in the front row on the end until halfway through the performance when she decided to move.
As soon as everyone was situated, the play commenced. Truthfully, I do not remember much of the play. All that I can extract from my memories are the swelling of the actors’ voices and the swapping of roles with the change of a hat. I was too distracted by my friends’ conversation to differentiate any of the actors’ words that did not sound like gibberish. Overall, we still had a pleasant time eating the forbidden Oreos we had smuggled into the tent and whispering in hushed tones. We mollified our guilt by concurring that roaring stomachs would not please the other audience members.
By the time the performance ended two hours later, the few faint rays of sunshine that had seeped through the clouds trickled behind the mountains and vanished for the night. Only a few light bulbs illuminated the park. Before we departed the tent, I took a picture with my phone of my two French friends and my mother wearing the garbage bags like jackets and grinning foolishly. Of course, I kept it as memorabilia, and my mother and I tend to reminisce the memory with fondness whenever the subject is brought up.
We were submerged in darkness when we began the pathway back to our car. A deep sort of darkness that made it impossible to glimpse the slanting silhouettes, the darting figures, and the intricate structures around us. But I did not mind this; it helped me open my mind to the small things in life that are underappreciated. It was easier to feel the cool tendrils of air pass by my fingertips. It was easier to replay the day’s seemingly disastrous events with warm regard. It was easier to see the starlight.