July Freedom
On the days when our writer looks at the Pacific Ocean, she thinks of her mom.
On the days when our writer looks at the Pacific Ocean, she thinks of her mom.
When I was growing up, my mom was a teacher. During the school year, it meant I couldn’t get away with anything. She was home when I was home. She knew the kinds of homework kids got and the kinds of lies they told teachers to get out of doing it. But, during the summer, having a mom for a teacher meant freedom. It meant long July days at the beach. We’d lay under the blazing summer sun before running, full tilt, towards the cool bite of the Atlantic. We’d stay all day, until the sun hung low in the sky and the sand turned chilly beneath our feet. I’d ride my pink Huffy bicycle around the cul-de-sac. I never felt more capable. I never felt freer as I pulled my hands from the handles. “Look, ma, no hands!” I’d say.
We’d lay under the blazing summer sun before running, full tilt, towards the cool bite of the Atlantic.
Our cousins would come, too, to spend time with us and the sea. Their parents worked, but my mom was home. As an adult, I know that my best vacations may not have felt like vacation to her. But if I asked her, I know she’d deny that it caused any strain. “I loved spending time with you kids,” she’d say. “Those are some of my fondest memories,” she’d add. And I have to believe her, because they are mine too. Now, the summer months aren’t so breezy. The sun still shines, but it is hard to get down to the beach with a job that doesn’t stop because it is July. But on the days when I look at a different ocean—the Pacific—I think of my mom. I think of our times on the other coast. I stare at the sun until it hangs low in the sky and the California sand feels chilly under my feet. I reflect on the love she felt for me then and feels for me now. She made the July days and nights when I felt so free.