My son is 15 and a half, whiling the summer away, likely his last to have such freedom.
I was remembering the summer I was his age. I didn’t grow up in St. Louis, much to my dismay (read my essay, The Secret Society of Those from Somewhere Else in The Commonspace) but still close enough in proximity that where you went to high school mattered. A lot.
I received my high school alumni newsletter this week, a publication I read cover to cover. Much to my delight and surprise there was a full page feature within about my first boyfriend, Mike. Now, Dr. Mike. Wow.
The summer of ‘86 was our time together, and I remember it fondly. We only had part of the summer, though. His father, from whom he was estranged, took him to Paris for a privledged month of drinking, going to clubs and smoking a little weed. What a dad.
When school started again in the fall, I was still bitter over my month of summer waiting for Mike to come home, so I picked out a new boy. I’ve often thought I should have stuck with the first.