As she sat in quiet meditation one beautiful summer morning, a cardinal alighted on the branch of the mimosa tree just beyond her window. He regarded her with a brief, thoughtful tilt of the head, then, as if satisfied, took wing once more and vanished into the shelter of a neighboring evergreen. The scarlet flash drew a brief smile from her, a reflex that always came at the sight of such a creature. But the smile quickly faded. A sudden heaviness settled in her chest as a hush of sadness crept in. Seeking solace, she reached for her tea, still warm in its cup. Lily Pearl, her dearest and most loyal companion, sensed the change and lifted her head, her dark eyes full of silent understanding.

It was no small thing, being the last in the family who remembered. Her recent visit to see Frank—her hero, the uncle she had looked up to her entire life—had confirmed what she’d feared: he could no longer recall that it had been his mother, her grandmother, who planted the mimosa tree. He didn’t remember the cardinals, or what the red birds had meant to their family. The remembering now belonged solely to her. She was, whether she wished it or not, the steward of their family’s history—guardian of worn photographs, heirloom artifacts, and those tender, invisible threads that still, just barely, held generations together.

“Well then,” she said quietly, returning to the present. “Time to begin the day. Shall we walk?” Lily Pearl gave a soft thump of her tail in reply. “Off to the park, then.”

It was June, after all, and even the early hours hinted at the heat to come. Outside, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of mimosa blossoms greeted the pair and followed them as they made their way along Adams Avenue and into the welcoming shade of the trees inside the park.

This was their favorite part of the day. It was not merely a stroll, but a ritual of sorts, shared and sacred. Kirkwood Park, with its worn paths and whispering trees, had been a beloved place for generations of their family, as it was for so many others in their community. It was a magical place, a garden where memories were stored like roots beneath the soil, growing deeper with each passing year.

As Lily Pearl trotted through an open field where clover grew thick, the breeze brought forth a peculiar gift. A slip of paper tumbled across the grass toward them, and she reached for it just before it escaped her grasp. Her excitement grew as she read, Presented by the Community Playmakers… This Weekend in the Kirkwood Park Amphitheater. And below, in carefully hand-drawn Tudor-style lettering, one word stood alone: CAMELOT.

Funny how one word can trigger such strong emotional responses at times. Waves of nostalgia came over her, images from years ago, decades really, melodies playing inside her head. She began to sing the refrain softly to herself, remembering the words as if it were yesterday. How the mind could recall such trivial information at moments like this.

Lily Pearl tugged on the lead, eager to move on. She carefully folded the flyer and tucked it into her pocket, still humming the tune as they walked, allowing her mind to float into a daydream, like mist above a meadow, back to a time of castles and knights in shining armor.

As the day came to a close and Lily Pearl settled onto her favorite chair to rest, her excitement grew. The show was about to begin. “I won’t be long,” she whispered, rubbing one of Lily’s velvet-soft ears, and fastened the door behind her.

She walked quickly. She had not stopped thinking about the musical all day, had not stopped humming the tunes. What a treat to sit outside on a lovely summer evening and experience a performance by people who so loved the theater that they volunteered their time, putting their heart and soul into the production. It was the kind of joyful communal experience that had been taking place in Kirkwood Park for more than a century.

The amphitheater was nestled at the foot of the hill near the lake. The seats began at the top and cascaded downward toward the proscenium, curving into a semi-circle that offered a clear view from every row. Surrounding the amphitheater were tall trees of every shape and kind, along with hedgerows that helped hold the sound within and direct it toward the audience.

As she crested the hill, she saw the glow of lights through the trees and could hear the ambient sounds of a play about to begin: the hum of an audience finding their seats, a small amateur orchestra warming their instruments. The excitement in the air reminded her of a carnival, replete with the smell of popcorn and cotton candy mingling with fresh-cut grass.

Reaching the hedgerow, she gently pushed aside the branches, just enough to reveal the scene below. There it was, the amphitheater she had known since childhood. But tonight, it felt different. The colors seemed more vibrant, the crowd more spirited. She couldn’t quite say what had changed. Perhaps it was simply the mystique of Camelot, a story untouched by time.

A shiver went up her spine. Something about this night felt thrilling, and she was filled with a sense of anticipation that took her quite by surprise. She felt almost giddy, and in fact let out a soft giggle. Then, brushing a few lingering branches aside, she stepped through the hedgerow and into one of the rows to select a good seat.

Almost immediately the house lights dimmed, and the stage became alive with sound and color. She sat in the dark as the overture drifted over the audience in familiar waves, melodies so time-worn and beloved that she, like many others, was already singing along with the orchestra in their heads, long before the young cast had a chance to perform.

And as Merlin called out to the King in one of the opening lines, and the King jumped down from the tree, it happened.

It was him.

Frank. Young, impossibly young, dressed in royal robes and crowned in cardboard and gold foil, playing a youthful king with eyes full of wonder, his voice rich and clear.

She felt her breath catch and turned toward the crowd, scanning the faces to see if others were seeing what she saw. She turned back to the stage in disbelief, her hand rising to her mouth, eyes filling with tears as she tried to make sense of what she was witnessing.

It could not be. She closed her eyes and dropped her head to collect herself. When she opened them again, she noticed the strangest thing. Her shoes. They were so small. Each had a little grosgrain bow, one on the left toe, one on the right. She was wearing ankle socks with delicate ruffled lace. Then she felt the stinging on her left knee, a tiny wound, most likely from a scrape on the playground.

All of her senses seemed to heighten. Even the air around her felt brighter, clearer, as though the moment itself had come into sharper focus.

And then, above all else, came a sound she had not heard in more than twenty years. As the audience responded to a comedic line between the actors on stage, she heard a deep, distinct laugh. She turned to her left and saw, just a few rows away, her grandfather, smiling, eyes crinkled in delight. Sitting beside him was his wife, the woman who had planted the mimosa tree. Both were looking down toward the stage with pride at their son, the King.

A sudden, dizzying wave passed through her, and the scene around her seemed to shimmer, as if caught between two worlds. She leapt to her feet, the shock too overwhelming. Instinctively, out of fear and confusion, she turned and stumbled out of the amphitheater, barely keeping her footing, and pushed through the hedgerow into the darkness beyond.

She stood there, leaning against the evergreens, looking up at the branches and the stars beyond, trying to catch her breath, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The weight of it all—what she had seen, what she had felt—came crashing in, and the tears rose before she could stop them. Not just from confusion, but from the aching sweetness of it all. The chance to hear his laugh, to see her smile and look so proudly down at the stage toward her son, the King… and the King himself, so youthful and confident, with his beautiful, lyrical baritone ringing out over the audience—the sound of his voice that she had loved so dearly.

She had missed them all so much, and to have even a few brief moments in their presence again, to see them in the prime of their lives, meant more than she could have ever imagined.

Her heart was racing, and her mind was, too. Before reason could take hold, she knew she had to look once more through the hedgerow, hoping for just one more glimpse of them. With a shaky hand, she pushed the branches aside. But to her dismay, beyond the hedge, the amphitheater stood empty, shrouded in darkness. There was no play, no audience, no orchestra. The stage was lit only by moonlight.

The disappointment made her heart ache. She knew she had not imagined what had just happened. It was absolutely real. For reassurance, she reached into her pocket and felt for the flyer. It was still there. What was the old phrase? “Don’t let it be forgot, that for one brief, shining moment there was Camelot.”

It was hard to leave the scene behind. Slowly, she made her way home, the night quiet around her. As she replayed the event in her mind, she felt a deep loneliness settle over her.

She unlocked the side door. Lily Pearl did not stir as she entered. The house welcomed her with its comforting, familiar scent of lavender and something faintly sweet.

She poured herself a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, the walk home having calmed her. She drew the flyer from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table.

The tears came again, softer now. Not from shock, but from the quiet ache of knowing. Of having seen Frank, so young, so alive, his eyes lit with purpose, and remembering the man he had become. Kind still, yes, but fading. The sharpness once in his voice now dulled by time, and worse, by forgetfulness. He no longer remembered Kirkwood Park. Not really. Not the stage. Not the magic.

She pressed her palms flat against the table. It had happened. It was real. And more than that, it mattered.

Because even she, with all her sentiment and her stories, could no longer remember every detail. Not as she once had. Childhood impressions were vivid, yes, but incomplete. There were gaps. Small ones, maybe. But enough to lose something precious in the telling.

She traced over the letters of the play’s title with the tip of her finger. The flyer was the same, but this time she noticed something new.

It read that the musical would be performed on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening. Tonight’s performance had been the Saturday performance. There would be one more.

She had to go back. Not just to feel it again, but to witness it fully. To gather it. To keep it. Before it slipped away forever.

Because life was fragile. Time, even more so.

And if she didn’t remember…if someone didn’t…who would?