2

My mom and I used to celebrate the first day of summer by getting up before dawn to watch the sunrise on the water at the Beechwood Inn. My first memory of this is from when I was four, the year my parents divorced. We’d arrive in the dark, sneak around to the back deck, and sit on the steps while the sun rose over Long Island in the distance. While we waited, she’d ask, “What do you want this summer?” And I’d say into the dark: I want to learn to ride a bike, or I want to beat you in chess. I want to grow two inches. I want to be kissed. She’d keep saying, “What else?” as I tossed my summer wishes into the dark. There was no limit to the things I was allowed to want. After my last wish, she’d say, “You can have all of it,” and I believed her. And then, just as the sherbet sunrise was starting to erupt in the sky, she’d put her arm around me and squeeze my shoulder. “Here’s to a champagne summer,” she’d say.

Beechwood, New York, is a small suburban town, just north of Manhattan and just south of Connecticut, with miles of coastline along the Long Island Sound. Our version of the beach is just the seashore where small waves splash your ankles and deliver crabs. The water view ends at Long Island in the distance, a finger of land that protects us from the Atlantic. Because of our geography, our town feels tucked away and drama-free. It’s a town where you know your mail carrier and your grocer by name, but if you want something exciting to happen, you should probably go someplace else.

We picked up my mom’s first-day-of-summer tradition again when I moved back to Beechwood, and, of course, we brought the kids along. She’d smile at the water as my kids shouted out their wishes. “What else?” we asked, over and over. It was Iris’s idea to start doing this on paddleboards after my mom died. I resisted the change because a tradition is a tradition. But I could tell that the girls were feeling more sad than nostalgic about it, and the change actually felt good. Today’s our second annual paddleboard sunrise, and we park at the inn and walk the length of the dock to the boathouse in the dark. My high school history teacher Mrs. Bronstein, who now manages the boats there and insists I call her Linda, gave me my own key years ago. We pull out three paddleboards and launch ourselves into the water. Greer is cautious, kneeling before she stands and staying very still. Iris pops up and promptly cartwheels right into the water. I straddle my board to keep it steady while Cliffy lies on his back, head in my lap, waiting for the sun.

Summer is always marked by something. The summer we moved to Beechwood. The summer Greer learned to swim. These past two summers have been marked by death and separation, and I’m wondering what our memory of this one will be. Cliffy tells the darkness that he wants to build a footbridge across the creek in our yard. Iris wants to score three goals in a game. Greer mutters her wishes to herself. “What else?” I say over and over. I want to make a wish too, but they’re all jumbled in my head.

“Say something, Mom. Hurry up,” Cliffy says. The sky is starting to brighten, but we can’t see the sun yet. Iris is in a full handstand on her board. She is fearless and sure in a way that makes me wish she was a pill I could swallow. Greer paddles away, not too far, and then back again.

I haven’t had fun since this boulder of grief landed on my chest. I want to laugh and be spontaneous about something as impossible as Baked Alaska. I want to clean out one single closet. “I want everything to feel lighter,” I say as the sun appears and grants my wish.

“Here’s to a champagne summer!” we all shout at the sun. Cliffy laughs, because it’s funny to shout at the sun, but the girls and I are quiet, still a little unmoored out here.