SNAPSHOT: It's hot. Like, blazing. That's what I remember the most. The kind of hot that comes at you from all directions, UV rays burning my skin and the asphalt burning blisters onto the soles of my feet. W must have had snow cones. We always had snow cones. We would have been wearing our bathing suits with basketball shorts. We wore no shoes.
This was after the flood but before the end of the world. After childhood but before adulthood. After middle school and before high school. This isn't so much an event as it is a collection of events. An entire two and a half months frozen as a single moment in time.
This was the summer of the kumquats. This was the summer of the white v-neck. This was the summer of Ryan Woodfield, of Tyler, and of Regina Spektor. This summer we were golden. We lived in an endless dream, a couple of nymphs and naiads masquerading as lovestruck teenage girls. We broke curfew by an hour and snuck out in the middle of the night and called ourselves rebels. Called ourselves wild. About as wild as a bumblebee on a string, we were, and about as tame as the raccoons in Brenna's backyard.
And our bench on the creek saw it all. Counted our tears and carefully chronicled our fortunes and misfortunes. That bench became the silent observer of our lives.
How could we know? How could we know how much this one fleeting summer, this never-ending millisecond would change us forever?