Postcards From Summer

When I was growing up, summer was exciting--no school (despite the fact that I loved school), and months full of promise. But as an adult and after years of spending relentlessly scorching days inside a poorly ventilated and non-HVAC’d woodshop, I began to dread summer. And by the time September rolled around, I would experience the equivalent of what my cold-climate compatriots felt at the end of a long, dark winter: SAD--except instead of being in need of more sunlight, I was in need of a reprieve from the perpetual heat.

That was until the magic combination of shade and a cold body of water presented itself. Last summer, when I was very pregnant, I spent my mornings exploring the trails at Blue Hole in Wimberley, TX, and then I’d waddle myself into the deep end of the creek. Floating on my back and gazing up at the feathery cypress trees dancing effortlessly above me, my lips imperceptibly molded into a smile. I’d outsmarted the cruel sun. Except down in that water, the sun wasn’t cruel--it was sparkly, friendly, inspiring. It was the reason the water glimmered invitingly and the fish busy beneath its surface shimmered like mermaids. The sun was everything beautiful and everything summer. I was falling in love with this season again.

In those months, I would talk to June, then still growing inside, and then without her name. I would call her Baby and tell her that the cypress were dancing for her. I would hide out in the far, deep part away from the frolicking families and sing to her. The waters and my time in them were sacred.

And now this summer, I go back to those magic waters that were so good to me, this time with a budding 1-year-old. The creek is cold for some, but not for us.

Swimming with June, we fully embrace each other as she leans her head into the crook of my neck. I’m not in the deep part this year, instead, I wade us into the rocky creek bed and walk around as the water flows beneath my chest and I help June float in the sparkly blue-green water. The sun is golden as it finds its way through the cypress.

I change her into a dry diaper at the car, but I keep my wet swimsuit on and climb into the driver’s seat. The windows are down despite the outside temperature, and as we drive, we listen to music we like, with a good backbeat. June falls asleep, and the warm summer air dries my suit quickly. My resting face is an absent-minded smile as the music and wind flow through my hair. It reminds me of being a teenager, driving around alone with the windows down at night in the summer—listening to my favorite songs and contemplating life. It dawns on me that I was probably fantasizing about a kind of happiness not too far off from this. That girl would be so into this moment. On our small country road that takes us home, everything feels nostalgic and freeing. I’m my past and my present. We pull into our driveway and I wake my daughter up gently in her carseat. She yawns and grins a 6-tooth wide smile and rubs her eyes. God I feel alive.