When I was a child, my grandma would spend the sweltering, Kentucky days by the poolside with me. I would rush to the edge of the water and pause, apprehensive, before realizing nothing bad would happen once I jumped in. The water and sun would mix until my skin was warm and reddened from the hours outside. I would forget sunscreen and be reprimanded for it every time, but the sunny days couldn’t be wasted- each one was numbered, school would always return with the early mornings and stuffy classrooms and the pool would always get too cold. The wildflowers that bloomed during those days couldn’t be picked and cherished fast enough. Goldenrods and daffodils and forget-me-nots, all of which my grandma would treat as if they had never been discovered before. Everything meant something during those childhood moments. The pool was an ocean, the watermelon sliced and ate was a delicacy, and the nights spend staying up until morning returned were exciting. The frogs and cicadas sang their lullabies every evening, you just had to listen to find the magic. It was contagious. Nature always wanted to chatter about something.

            When I was younger, my best friend would spend the fading evenings by my side. We pressed phones to our ears and whispered secrets that felt so dire at the time. Those words will never be repeated, but the conversations stay in my head, fable tales from young teenagers understanding nothing. The warmth in the air seemed to never fade during that time, a breeze only cooling us for a second. We would wait until the nighttime was around and find ourselves immersed in a world we created for ourselves. There was no apprehension towards the summer nights- they would always find a way to come back to us and we would still be there, waiting to share more secrets. There was no apprehension towards the friendship we created- we would come and go throughout each others lives, but the versions of ourselves that spent the years together would always remain close.

            When I was a teenager, I spent summer evenings in the passenger seat of my best friends car. I was never the driver, because I hated driving. I spent the evenings with them coasting around our small hometown, watching the sun do its evening dance across the sky, and listening to music we had heard a million times before. The moments passed always felt brand new, because there was always something brand new to learn about the other.

Jada would insist on choosing the music, creating jokes out of every song, because she was the loudest one out of us. She sprang into my life much like she did everyone else’s- suddenly there, suddenly making jokes, suddenly taking a seat at the lunch table. Mary drove- always the unofficial leader. She made the decisions that felt too big for anyone else and never left a person out of the conversation. Always ready to hear someone out. Shayna chattered about school and relationships and who she wanted to become. It was unsaid between us that we were most alike. Always concerned about everything- from the cloudy skies to where we would be in ten years.

The soccer field behind the McDonalds in the tiny town of Breathitt was the resting ground for us. We would run around the field, the grass so green in every place except the white painted lines, and give each other everything we had. On mornings everyone could be assembled, we would go to the lake outside of town and find places in the sand to sit and laugh. Sometimes the heat of it would burn and sometimes the Buckhorn beach would be crowded with families and couples and other friends, but we always had our bubble. We learned how to grill out that summer, how to play beach volleyball, where each person lived, what our favorite fast food places were, how many backroads we could speed through, how to think the world would stop for a moment so we could savor the memories. Every picture taken that summer is found with sunlight filtering through the corner of the page and goofy smiles created from laughs rather than the purpose of looking pretty.

One evening, we sat at the Buckhorn beach for hours, alternating between lazing in the sun and dunking each other in the water. Jada pretended she couldn’t swim, feigning fear of the water that went over her head. Mary preferred the sand, using her new towel to stay dry and warm. Shayna swam to the far side, circling back around only to speak to us. Of every summer evening spent this one stays with me. I remember our different we were and yet how we always circled back to each other.

            Now, the present summers no longer feel linear. Rather, each day feels like an accumulation of all the other days. It’s a beautiful feeling, to know you’re a product of everything you’ve experienced and have yet to experience. Sometimes I find myself sitting by the tiny pool, book in hand, bowl of watermelon by my side. There is no ocean before me, but there is clear water for me to wade through. Other times I find myself sitting on the back porch, phone in hand, while lightning bugs flicker through the tall grass like fallen stars. The girl I spent talking to all those nights is somewhere else, no longer a phone number I know by heart, but I talk to others all the same, more secrets being shared and created. Sometimes, I slide into the passenger seat of Mary’s car with a change of clothes and a beach towel, ready to create memories around the lake that will be completely new but feel completely familiar.

            All those summers feel like a circle and every time the season finds its way back to me, I find my way back to those memories.

            Nancy Arrowood grew up in Breathitt County, Kentucky. The scenic Appalachian Mountains have served as a muse for most of her work. Nancy has a bachelor’s degrees in English and psychology and is currently working towards her master’s in counseling. When she isn’t nose deep in a textbook, she can be found hiking at Red River Gorge, curled up on the couch with her dog, or turning her ideas into poems and novels.