Desks emptied and cleaned. Autograph books signed. A whole three months of freedom ahead of me.
June gloom. Swimming lessons with high fog shrouded skies. Sunburns at the beach, through the deceptive marine layer.
By August, hot, bright sun, baking the sidewalk, burning my bare feet as I hop/skip/jump to the cool grass.
Sprinklers, slip’n’slides, and the inevitable shreds of grass lodged into my bathing suit in the most inopportune places.
The first time I swam across the public pool, dog paddling and barely making it, but somehow getting my "Beginners" Red Cross certificate and button.
Seemingly spontaneous wienie roasts at the beach. My dad rifling through the scrap wood by the side of the garage. My mom making enough food to feed an army (there were 7 of us total)…macaroni salad and hot dogs (usually accompanied by grit in my mouth on account of sandy fingers). Sun setting as the jets from LAX took off over head and fire crackled in the pit.
Mr. Thornton’s yard, next door. The beautiful, prolific apricot tree outside his back porch. All us neighborhood kids gathered as he shook the branches. Luscious, ripe fruit plopping down on the ground. Scrambling to gather and gobble up those orange morsels
Little stucco frame houses of post war California. On really hot days, heat collecting inside, going to bed and feeling the sheets against my skin as if they’d just been ironed.
A little cabin in Crestline, belonging to family of a neighbor, a short getaway from L.A. The peacocks that mournfully cried out around that mountain town. The miniature golf with the trampolines that I could evidently spend hours bouncing on. There’s a family photo of me and two childhood friends up there. I look at myself, unapologetically posed as if I were some kind of dancer and wonder, what happened to her?
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