Each disc a day

It was the best summer of our lives. We knew it at the time — I’ll always be grateful for that — even if those around us were inclined toward demurring, prevaricating. I’m sure it felt premature, to declare something “the best” when there were still so many opportunities to surpass it, when we were still so young.

But each day was a golden disc, luminous and precious, and they stacked lazily on top of one another for months – “each disc a day, and the addition slow.”

Everything was new. I had never had a boyfriend, of course, so that was new, but I mean everything. I drove on new roads in my old town – roads I’d never needed to drive on before, because nothing that lay at the end of them had ever mattered. I listened to new music on his mixed cassette tapes: The Arcade Fire, Iron & Wine, Wilco, Bloc Party. I tried new foods, overcoming my limited palette in the hopes of impressing him, or at least not disappointing him: guacamole, gazpacho, pavlova, sushi, hot buttered lobster roll, chicken tikka masala.

We got our Indian fix from a little hole-in-the-wall in the city next door, and after our many trips the owner began recognizing us. This felt important: a new acquaintance who had never known us apart from one other. We laughed as we were ushered to the table by the window week after week.

Who wouldn’t want to put love on display?

Our favorite days, the best days, went like this: wake up slow. Converge on the McQuade’s parking lot with the group. Order deli sandwiches, squeeze into fewer cars. Drive to Watch Hill, make a decision about parking (pay $20 for the lot or risk a ticket?), then hoof it past the marina and over the dunes to a slice of sand on Napa Tree Point. Unfurl a towel. Lie in the sun. Toss the football. Splash in the waves. Talk, talk, talk with whomever could come that day.

We got quite a few tickets.

Then home for a quick shower, pull on a sundress. A few minutes later he’d pull back into my driveway and we’d head out, just the two of us this time – to Abbott’s, for dinner, squinting, the low sun glinting off the sound. Another place I’d never been, even though I’d lived in this town my whole life, too.

Then to game night. Someone’s parents’ house, the whole group again, or whoever could make it that evening. Cranium, usually, or poker, or Rock Band. Home before curfew, usually just.

We were not completely without responsibility, that summer. He worked at a seaside market, slicing ham and scooping potato salad and toasting bagels for beachgoers. He’d bring me home an unsold chocolate croissant after closing, by this point knowing enough (and feeling comfortable enough) to pull one of my mom’s wax-paper-wrapped burritos out of the freezer for his own late-night snack.

I worked at a tiny beach shack, at a tucked-away cove frequented only by nannies and toddlers. He’d bike miles round trip with a friend or two just to see me, rounding the corner of the deck sweating and grinning. I’d give them a shaved ice, the sanctioned offering for friends, then go back to reading my book in the sun when they left.

A letter arrived from college with my roommate’s name printed neatly in small black type. She called me a few days later, urged me to log onto Facebook now that we could guess at our college email addresses. Intrusive, all of it, an unwelcome reminder that a world beyond this summer was lurking.

Never mind.

We hiked, we kayaked at the cottage, we watched movies, we laid in the hammock and read books, we dove in the pool, we walked on the train tracks, we went to the casinos for Krispy Kreme, we played croquet in my backyard, we hopped the fence and flew high on the beachside swings in Groton under the moon. And when we weren’t with our friends or alone, my younger sister inexplicably became our third wheel, a heretofore unheard of circumstance in our somewhat-frosty relationship.

It’s easy to be generous when you’re in love.

We went skinny dipping once, wading deep into the pond before tossing our suits back to shore, everyone laughing and shrieking in the moonlight, and that was the night of our biggest argument. “Are you just going to do what everyone else does?” he shot at me later, a slight tremor revealing the fear about what we’d find, who we’d become when throttled beyond this golden summer, plucked up and placed somewhere we weren’t seen and known and loved.

This was the only stumble.

Otherwise – and this is not just hazy hindsight, I remember this with clarity and certainty – we knew this summer was the beginning, knew we would pass into marriage, and children, knew we would last. We knew it as surely as we knew our names.

But who could bear to live in that excitement for even five years?

I have had many blissful seasons since, many golden summers, mostly because our lives only became further entwined – but none like that first one. Our love feels quieter now, steadier, deeper. It is on this love that the engine of our marriage is run: being in love that summer was the explosion that started it.

We celebrated the twentieth anniversary of our first date in late January, and I couldn’t let it go by without sharing a few thoughts. Astute readers will recognize that I wove in a few lines from one of our ceremony readings, with many thanks to C.S. Lewis, as well as a line from my favorite poem.