It's almost hard to believe, what with how things are going, that there's a future waiting for you on the other side of this; if you can get out of it alive. Maybe you're dramatizing, but it doesn't feel like it when you're stuck in the middle of a swamp of hormones, only some of which belonging to you, and the foreseeable end is years away. Maybe not years, plural, but around one singular year. There's no way to really make it go faster for you, and there's no way to escape the world that puts you in a better place, so all you can do is hang on for the ride and be grateful that you're the type to breeze through essays and most assigned homework.
And then finally, what you think might have been the worst year of your life, ends. It's almost too sudden, like one day you're working hard and taking tests and trying to resist the urge to text in class, and the next you're free. You're out for the summer. Three full months of pure bliss. Seventh grade is finally at an end.
Sure, you realize that someday you'll look back at it and you'll realize how foolish all of your troubles were, how much fun you actually had. You'll remember all the fun times you had with old friends and you'll laugh about how silly you were and how ridiculous everything was, but for now you're just happy to get out. Summer. Freedom.
Of course, summer ends up being so busy and yet so boring. There's so much to do and so much you want to do, too much time at home surrounded by the imposing wizard figures of your childhood and not enough time to spend with friends, not enough time to spend alone doing nothing. Activities, camps, writing, entertaining yourself by chatting but never really doing anything with anyone. And then all of that comes to a standstill.
Two weeks with your mom and your extended family in a little state on the far side of America before you go back to the grueling schedule you maintain most days of a year, along with many of the other children around the world.
You stay in your aunt's house, which is at least twice the size of your own. To say the least it's impressive, and when you stay there and eat the home-cooked meals and your mother is less drunk than usual you feel like you could just stay there forever and maintain a pleasant state of happiness, though you know it's partially a vacation glow you're feeling. Your cousins make sure to stop by frequently, or you go visit them in their respective housings, and then finally it's time to go to the shore.
A two story house painted with barn colors right on the beach. It's full of woven blessings pinned in corners and illustrations of beaches, as well as so many old, faded photographs in delicate metal frames perched on dressers in the four rooms upstairs. The couches had a small and detailed print of a country scene in brown, or the other print of flowers and floral. Everything was mismatched, but somehow it all fit together in a pleasant, welcoming, old way. You used to hate it here when you were little because there weren't any games to play, but you love it now. So few things left in the world are home made, not mass produced. Each feature is like a work of art.
And then there's the sailing, and the world seems to change perspective when you're on the boat. There's good distance between this house and the other houses on the waterline, but you can still see all the boats at dock a bit off from the shoreline, like a family of long-necked ducks feuding and giving a bit of distance, but still waiting for the others to make up so not going too far off. One of those boats is your uncle's, and he loves taking a few members of the family out for a good ride. You go out for a bit with him, your mother, and a younger cousin's family. It's delightful.
Joshua stays in the cabin of the boat most of the time, but the rest of you, you and the adults, stay out and enjoy the wind on your faces, through your hair, the gentle rock of the boat, the view. The water stretches out for a bit, but you can see the other houses there, the brick and white-washed wood little structures flat against the ground, with their little stone walls stacked a couple feet high, with the little gardens, everything lined by trees sprouting out but not growing too far above the roof and thickly populating. Everything was so close to the water, though, at closest maybe seven feet away.
One or two small rocky and verdant islands popped up close to civilization, but for the most part the water was uninterrupted. A sandy bank rimmed one side, like a palm cupping in the bouncing, deep, blue-green mirth, but beyond that there was ocean, vast and undisputed.
The clouds on that day you went sailing were beautiful, some of them were flattened and creamy wisps, but they sidled right up next to little puffs that reached the brightest whites at the tips and the deepest grey at the bottom, that loomed so close to the ground it looked like they might be grazing the trees. But even if some things looked so omniscient, they were also so heartbreakingly beautiful there was no way you wouldn't risk yourself for the chance to be so close.
The boat tipped at one point, the waves carried it as it was forced along by a strong breeze, and it was nearly vertical at one point. You could hear Joshua shouting his fearful dismay from the cabin, but you smiled. Family, laughing around you, telling old stories. Your mother, looking happier then you've ever seen her, more engaged, at her brightest. And you felt like you were on top of the world. For the most part, complete beauty around you, and the personalities around you flourish. Everything is at peace. The clouds, the seagulls at not so distant shores, the houses in their picturesque little beach scenes.
You tell yourself that you will never forget this moment, the moment on top of the world.