Every summer, faithfully, I return to my home. Annie C’s beach house. The one place that embodies comfort. My two best friends and I have taken a trip to the beach for a weekend every summer since 6th grade. When we arrive in Ocean City and turn the corner to face the gleaming gorgeous porch, we all squeal for what new memories are to be made the next two nights upon arriving inside. We rush in and can feel the warmth of the pillows on each bed mixing with the overall feel of bliss. I race around the back deck to the outdoor shower and race in first, hoping that Allison and Annie haven’t figured out where I am. Sure enough, the pine cones begin to fall and I know we are home. We head in to see Aunt Tammi chopping up carrots and onions, crying in laughter with the other mothers of the Cackle Club. The three of us face the mirror, preparing for a night of strolling down the city in tank tops and sunglasses. Thoughts of the next afternoon fill the air, longing to alternate between relaxing under the umbrella and splashing in the ocean. We’ll write down everything in the little green notebook that holds every inside joke. These are the traditions that make us.

Summer nights for us have been careless, watching movies until our eyes burn, laying outside eating fudge calling boys, and giggling at the hysterical people we pass. This town is what we know, yet nothing feels predictable. Each summer is a new story to tell, a series of unraveling talks as we all remiss about what has happened in our lives the last twelve months. Things have changed drastically from our scared times before entering middle school. Now, we linger waiting to hear back from colleges to take the next step to move forward. But we are not scared. We stand together in the ocean, grasping hands firmly, and face the rushing waves. Whatever happens in our lives to come, we always know that we will have the beach, our home, our memories, and our friendship.