Honorable mention: “Backyard Monarch.” photo by John Kaper “Golden summer memories.” story by Megan Turda
Memories that we carry forward by Megan Turda I don’t remember a lot of firsts. It would be too convenient, too romantic. The firsts are tucked away inside me, buried, foundations for the mirages and echoes of what I do remember. Farmer’s markets with my grandmother on hazy summer mornings, the pillowy feel of cinnamon donuts on the inside of my cheeks. The tingle of saccharine, purple grapes across my tongue, so sweetly overpowering. Chlorinated waters and salty spray, red peeling skin, too young and stubborn to sit still for sunscreen. Learning to dive deep and blow bubble rings. Summers spent like pennies at The Plunge, Malaga Cove, Peninsula High, PV High. Bomb pops and cheeseburgers gritted with wind-kicked sand. Bee stings and beach towels and searing, sticky leather car seats. Fundamental parts of me blurred together like smudged pastel drawings. Memory is like that. Fickle and strange. Biased toward negativity for survival. Yet the joy remains. The things that stick are the things repeated, rehearsed like a stage play. But no matter how it seems the same, memory is like a river. How does the old wisdom go? “You can never step in the same river twice. It is not the same…
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