Eighteen Summers

Photo by Lewis Meyers on Unsplash

At some point during motherhood
I saw something on the internet
about not wasting the summers
“You only get eighteen,” 
they warned.

Seventeen summers ago
I brought my oldest home 
from the hospital.
“Eighteen summers”
say the clock keepers.

But this summer I went home
after a decade away - 
although 
really 25+ years away. 

We ate an abundance of ice cream 
from the place many of my friends worked
while we were in high school.
And my sister-in-law brought home donuts,
the ones I used to have on Sunday mornings  
before church when I was young.
Chocolate long john. Filled.
We ordered pizza 
from the place we would go 
sometimes on Monday night 
after youth group.
Bobby bread with some of my best friends.

We bowled, and I was terrible,
worse than I ever was 
with my pink ball every other weekend.
But my youngest was delighted
as his dad helped him push it down the ramp.
Even bowling can be redeemed.

I saw an old friend
and also an old friend’s mom,
and I thought of how lucky I was
to have had carpools and lumberjack breakfasts
and class bunnies and French class.

I drank beers with my brother,
which I never did in my youth,
or even in my much of my adulthood.

There were deer,
and green grass and tall trees,
and fireworks.
We drank coffee named after poets,
and I sorted through old report cards
and school photos from a box in my mom’s basement.
Once upon a time there were slumber parties
and sleeping bags in that space.

I ate black raspberries
and missed Mimi and Papa.

We played all the games,
and we laughed.
Once or twice I cried,
plus my tears at the airport,
but we did not fight.
There was joy.
I remembered and
we made new memories.

There are more than eighteen summers.