Memories of Summer | Teen Ink

Memories of Summer MAG

By Anonymous

   I remember visiting Suni, India when I was five to see my grandparents. Other thantheir farm, all I remember is that miserable bridge, delicately spanning a dropthat seemed so steep that it was immeasurable. The bridge swayed like a giantelephant nodding its head in submission. A thread of river wound through thecleft in the ground, a vicious serpent that had already swallowed two foolishboys. I heard my uncle speak about them as if they were from some land far away,something that he could not regret or mourn, two thoughtless boys who had triedto travel that river on a raft.

I also remember visiting Kasauli, Indiafive years ago. It felt so different, having visited and now coming back. Themountains had gotten bigger, the trees were no longer simply the background of mychildhood memories, and the town/village/clusters of scattered houses - I don'tknow what to call it anymore - had shrunk. The marketplace had shriveled up anddried into a tiny little winding road and hunched buildings.

Themountains, pine-covered and solitary, gave me a feeling of being free. It was asif the world were mine alone, because there was no one else. World domination bydefault. I did not feel insignificant in the press of flesh. The houses, so farapart, seemed abandoned. I was the only one; the clouds were climbing down,making the ground a misty blur, erasing the scar of the road on the mountainside.The full moon rose in a sky undisturbed by lights, glinting through a fishnet oftrees, a gold coin-yellow orange, India gold, 22 carats that asked to be pickedout of the sky and put in a pocket.

And last summer, I was a gardener atthe Historical Society of Rockland. I remember the sudden thunderstorm that brokefrom nowhere. My floppy straw hat that had been keeping out the sun turned intoan unlikely umbrella. Rain streamed warm and alive down my arms, my back, findingme, redefining me in a world of water and gasps of air. In a flurry of lettuceseed we scurried, dirt and little brown flecks of seeds sticking to wet fingers.Sunscreen streaks melted down Julie's shoulders and we laughed, hastilysheltering bags and CDs and notebooks under the awning of the museum. We squishedbarefoot through mud, playing in the rain, and it felt like a memory that shouldhave belonged to me at five years old.

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