Time to Turn Over

Arlene Malinowski

I see them out of the corner of my eye, those girls with the long-legged swagger of youth and I am reminded of that summer.

It was the summer of fervent anticipation, five best girlfriends, and a rented house down the shore. It was having a drivers license, a job, a scorching tan and our freedom. It was the joy of being lifted by a lazy wave, the lure of being pulled by the swells of an undertow as powerful as first love and the sting of a shaved bikini line in the salty surf.

It was the summer of slathering baby oil and Imperial margarine over every inch of skin until we would char and sizzle like cheap hamburger meat on the grill. It was lipstick melting in a beach bag stuffed full of Tolstoy, Camus, Sidney Sheldon novels and near empty wallets. It was the smell of the ocean and the boardwalk tar and the salt-water taffy that followed us everywhere.

It was the summer of Sun-In and lemon juice that made blondes turn golden, redheads turn penny and brunettes turn orange. It was the blistering looks from skittish mothers as they dragged their children away from the melee. It was the silent exchange of smug glances at the women we vowed never to become.

It was the summer of surging beer shots and bong chasers, sleeping three to a bed and tiptoeing through a houseful of dozing bodies to make the noon shift at Maruca's Pizza Parlor. It was nursing rug burns, whisker burns, sand burns and sunburns with community tubes of Neosporin and aloe-vera. It was letting ourselves be swept away by the endless flirting, the public makeouts and the sloppy breakups.

It was blazing tight jeans, loose hair, the throbbing surf and the feeling that Labor day was a million miles away. It was the simple, secret belief that we all would be young forever.

As I watch them out of the corner of my eye I am reminded of that summer, the high tide of my life summer. “Remember” I say to them silently. “Remember. It will not last long. I was one of you once and I know”.