In the liquid evening, there are sounds of mothers calling children in from days of hard play, laughter and popsicles. Screen doors slam and it is 1959. My baby brother is four months old, Mark is four, I am going to be six in three weeks. We are plunked into the tub to soak away the sand and grit of beach or sandbox, dried off and dressed in lightweight seersucker pyjamas and nightgown respectively. One red lifesaver each, a drink; I will my eyes to stay open until it's first star wish time. Rarely do they cooperate.
Lights of all colours, strung from tree to tree come on down the street and laughter rings out from the patio. It is 1965, my twelfth birthday, and all the kids from the block are at the Healy's house. We are all ages, from Robert's age of eighteen down, and there is a record player and 45s for us to dance to. I swear sometimes that Kim Mitchell's song was written about that night - the nervous boys and girls, lemonade or punch to drink, but it's the Righteous Brothers and Billy Joe Royal I remember more than Bobby Vinton's "Blue On Blue". Am I really dancing with a boy to "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'"? The night is so warm, my cotton sleeveless dress is damp from fast dances and I'm so self-conscious as Kenny pulls me a little closer and sings along. It's over before I can believe it, and he's off to ask someone else to dance, and I am more relieved than anything.
Tires give a little squeal on the loose gravel before gripping the scorching pavement. That sound lands me in 1970, the year before my grad year from high school. My mother is pregnant at age 38, and I in my teenage mind think she has done this deliberately so I'll have to babysit forever. But sweet freedom is mine for all the summer nights because I have the car and can cruise with friends, or alone which I sometimes prefer. The moon follows all of our roads, windows rolled all the way down, radio turned all the way up. We are all in the same garb, long, center-parted hair, blue jean bell bottoms, t-shirts and water buffalo leather sandals. Seventeen means there's beer at parties and everyone gets high. Almost.After a brilliant aquapeachgoldpink sunset at the bay shore, the stars come out one by one until the velvet dark sky is studded with a bazillion diamonds. Is it 1988 already? I'm peaceful in my heart, and my five-year old snuggles against me on a blanket beside our car. We are trying to see the shapes of the constellations and this wondrous little person knows many names from books that we have read and charts that we have looked at. "Cassiopoeia, Mommy! And Orion's Belt." We are a pair now, just the two of us, and we're going to be just fine.
A fish jumps just to the right of the dock on a sultry, navy-blue night, and a gentle voice whispers words of love and intimacy beside my ear. In one another's embrace, wrapped in a thick down comforter against the chill of late August's rehearsal for autumn, we kiss, look into each other's eyes and make promises that neither of us is certain we can keep. Our intentions are pure, our passion unquestionable, and I feel safer than I recall feeling, ever, before or since. Summer nights feel like all these times rolled together into one beating, grateful heart. My heart.
