by Cadence Cedars
I sink into the passenger seat of my dad’s old brown Ford, a truck that smells of airplane fuel and coffee. The cracked leather seats, stitched and re-stitched, sigh beneath my weight, their stuffing poking through like tufts of dry grass in late autumn. The stick shift rattles in its place.
Through the window, the world slips by in soft, sun-drenched blurs. Weathered houses lean into the wind, their paint peeled and curled at the edges like old birch bark. Ponds, glassy and still, reflect the sky’s blue, interrupted only by the darting ripple of a dragonfly or the slow glide of a beaver. The same road, the same bends, the same familiar ache in my chest that comes with knowing exactly where we are going.
Dust billows behind us, spiraling into the air, catching golden light and scattering in sunlit ribbons. The wind, thick with the scent of dry grass and briny river, tangles in my hair, whipping it against my sun-warmed cheeks. My skin hums beneath the heat—the kind that sinks into your bones and stays long after the sun has dipped below the trees.
At the harbor, the river shimmers, its surface broken by the lazy drift of moored boats and the occasional pulse of a passing wake. We send Lady C into the water, and she settles into the current, a quiet sigh before the journey. I tug on my rubber boots, their soles worn smooth from summers of wading, and feel the familiar press of damp socks against my toes.
I already know the way to our beach—it lives in my body like a second heartbeat. I map it in my mind, tracing the sharp bends of the river, the sloping shoulders of the bluffs, the tiny inlet tucked away like a secret. If Dad lets me drive, I’ll follow it perfectly, just like I’ve imagined a hundred times before.
My life jacket, bright red and faded at the edges, clasps tight around my ribs. My sister’s matches mine exactly, though hers is always a little looser, the straps dragging when she moves. We claim our spot at the front of the boat, gripping the metal edge, our fingers slipping on the cool, slick surface. The engine rumbles beneath us, sending a thrill through my bones as we lift and drop over each passing wave.
The river stretches wide and glistening, the wake of other boats rippling out in long, rolling folds. We count the bluffs—six more, three turns. With every bend, the anticipation swells in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a held breath. Soon, soon, soon.
When we finally dock, my sister and I leap from the boat without thinking, the river swallowing us up in a rush of cold, shocking against our sun-heated skin. We laugh, sand clinging to our cheeks, the water curling around our ankles as we splash each other in the shallows.
The bluffs rise before us, towering and golden in the late afternoon sun, their faces crumbling where time and wind have chewed away at their edges. Tiny holes pockmark the surface—swallows’ nests, dark and hollow, tucked into the sandy cliffs like secret doorways.
We scramble up, digging our fingers into the warm, crumbling earth, our knees scraping against the grit. The sand is soft beneath our hands, slipping between our fingers in dry, golden streams. At the top, we press our faces close to the nests, peering inside, our breath shallow with excitement. Maybe an egg, maybe the blur of a wing, maybe nothing but the deep, silent dark.
Our faces are streaked with dust, our hands caked in the scent of earth and river. There is no rush, no thought beyond this moment. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the sand, and for now, the world is only this—the water, the bluffs, and the laughter of two sisters, wild and free, caught in the endless rhythm of summer.
