Summer of 2010.

This summer is the summer to live. It is the summer to be irresponsible. The summer to learn that if I eat a burger from Burger King it won't kill me. The summer to learn that if I buy mustard it won't kill me. If I go to see Toy Story in theaters it won't kill me. If I depend on other people it won't kill me. If I let people actually know me it won't kill me. If I make some mistakes it won't kill me. If I let my mother buy me things it won't kill me. If I don't give my mother money it won't kill me. If I take this summer for myself it won't kill me.

It is also the summer to think about what I have. And what I don't have. What I want, what I need, and how I can get it. To think about how I grew up and how I want to be now and how I want to live my life in the future.

I needed to learn and do these things and I could not do that at home.

Summer of 1995.

This summer is the summer that has probably most defined how I see, think, and feel about the world. It is the summer when my memories first began to crystallize in a more definite form. I have a handful of recollections from before then- backwards clothes day in preschool, eating graham crackers in the basement of a church- but nothing solid. So, in many ways, this summer is the story of my beginning. How I came into being. The foundation of my life. And while it is not a continuous timeline of my summer by any means, when I think of my childhood, these are the images and sounds and words and motions that I know and that I feel.

My best friend at the time, Julie, had come over to my house to play. When it was time for my mother to drive her back to her own home, I had decided that I would prefer not to go along for the ride. I was tired, I didn't feel like it, I wanted to watch something on television, I probably whined. My father got involved. For one reason or another he became invested in the situation and his anger and bulging eyes broke me into tears and the next thing I know I was pinned against the wall by my neck with my father's hand. I am in the hallway, to the left of the bathroom door. I can see my mother and Julie watch on as my crying slowly stifled to a stop and my arms and legs grew slightly numbed. I was told I would be going with Julie to drop her off, and I believed him. As it turns out, I was not good company for Julie in the car that day anyhow. It would be years before Julie's mother allowed her to return to my house, so I suppose the problem was solved.

I liked to walk into the room in between the living room and the kitchen, where the bookshelves were, and find the red dictionary or the white bible with the pastel illustrations. With the minimal reading skills I had, I would carefully examine the letters that made up the indents in the side of the dictionary and search for my favorite pictures in the bible. On my way over to the kitchen, I would open the liquor cabinet and deeply breathe in the smell of old wood, liquor, and dust. I reached inside around all of the glass bottles and found the lamb made of sugar that was the centerpiece of every Polish Easter table setting. After taking a lick, I would reach back around the bottles and replace the lamb into the wooden bowl full of jellybeans. I closed the cabinet and continued into the kitchen where I would sit at the table and watched my mother cook.

It was late, for a five year old at least, when I walked into the kitchen. My mother was sitting at the table, in the spot next to the wall beneath telephone. There was a half empty coffee on the table in my mother's coffee cup- glass, tinted brown, an unrounded handle. Next to it, a half empty bottle of wine. In my mother's hand was a wine glass, also half empty. On my mother's face were tears. I continued to the cabinet and reached for the identical copy of my mother's coffee cup and filled it with milk. The brown tint of the glass made the contents look very similar to my mother's unfinished coffee. I took a seat at the far end of the table, closest to the back door. I took a sip of my milk as my mother took a sip of her wine. I looked at my mother's face as tears rolled down her cheeks. There was once a time when I would have climbed into her lap, extended my arms, and offered a hug. I can't remember that time, but I can feel it. But by this summer I knew that was no longer welcome. I had grown accustomed to the hugs being pushed away, the embrace greeted with more annoyance than welcome. So I did what had become the new tradition. I sat across the table, in a parallel world, hoping my mother felt a comfort in my presence that I no longer felt in hers.

Summer of 2008.

This summer is the best summer on record. Just graduated high school, gearing up for college, smoking, drinking, making money. I don't remember this summer. I remember words and phrases that defined this summer, but the memories themselves- the images and motions and sounds- completely evade me.

"Oh look, it's us again." Khadijah, Minh, Anna, me.

"Noodle nap time." Absolutely delicious Vietnamese feasts followed by napping and cuddling.

"Lank battles." Always the winner.

"Jeeks and Peter." Self-explanatory.

The rest is blank. Goddamn lyme disease. All I know is that when I

think back to the summer of 2008, it wasn't perfect. It wasn't without its faults. But there is a general feeling of goodness when I think about it.

I can look at pictures, and know that it was good.

Summer of 1999.

This summer is the summer I remember most vividly in my mind. It was marked by three friends- Jamie, Kristina and Kerri- not so much by choice but rather by circumstance. We all had a mutual understanding about each others' lives and none of us ever felt compelled to talk forthright about it. It was marked by misadventures. There were several run-ins with the police that, looking back, seems to be several run-ins too many for a pack of 9 year old girls. But mostly it was marked by freedom. Not the kind that most kids crave but the kind that leaves a bitter taste on the tongue by the end of the day.

The feeling of indestructibility was intoxicating. The air wreaked of it. We knew, or so we believed, that the only thing that could devastate us was what lived inside the houses we ran from. Jamie's mother was bipolar, Kerri's house was marinated in liquor, Kristina's parents both worked full time jobs, and my house was, well, my house. If the plan was to grab some lunch at my place, but as we walked across the back porch we heard the sounds of dishes breaking and screaming, Kerri would mention the pack of bacon newly purchased at her house which was obviously the superior food choice. And if once we got there her mother had a tall glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and was slurring to herself, Jamie would recall how much she hated bacon in the first place and talk about the ice cream and cones in her kitchen. And so it would go until we found a moment of temporary peace at one of our homes. When that wasn't an option, we would continue to Friendly's where we had befriended the Haitian waiter who would tell us about his family back in Haiti and offer us free plates of french fries.

The days would start well before breakfast. We would go to the abandoned school a couple of blocks from our street and sit on the rocks and play with acorn tops or go in the woods to try to find the fort that Jamie's older sister built there. (We never did find it but did have the cops called on us, turns out it was a private area and our disturbances were not welcome.) We would make up dances to Britney Spears songs. We would make movies. We would craft posters that encouraged drivers to honk their horns if they loved or supported various causes and keep tally of how many honked, how many read the sign the did not honk, and how many picked their noses. On the corner of Oak and Maple, the "Honk if you love rainbows" poster got two nose-pickers.

Days would turn into nights and we would play on. By dark, the streets were our playground. An all time favorite was playing Red Light, Green Light with the traffic light at the Oak and Chestnut intersection. The traffic light would always win. When we grew tired we would walk over to the sewage grate closest to Kristina's house with the S on it, spit on it (which was what the S signified), and lie in the middle of the street and discuss our next move. By then it was generally time for some late night TV or a movie marathon. We were friendly with the folks who worked at the Blockbuster down the street so we were allowed to rent whichever movies we wanted. The most memorable rental was that of American Pie and Silence of the Lambs.

To us, sleep was beyond the point and I pulled more all nighters then than I would advise to anyone. By sunrise, it was time to start our days again and off we would go. There were certainly strings of days that would go by without me seeing or speaking with my family. But inevitably, after a few days, total exhaustion would seep in and we split up to go sleep in our respective houses for the next 36 hours until we could run loose once more. Lather, rinse, repeat.