Popsicle Juice

There is a hole in the back corner of the fence around my house just wide enough to fit through if you turn sideways. It connects to the backyard of a pale yellow house with two pale, white-blonde children who sit on their back deck, feet bare, orange popsicle juice dripping down their chins. We peek through this splintered gate between our houses, knowing that in this summer air, seeing each other is almost always an invitation to run and play. Sneaky glances and shrill yells tell our parents where we are going as we slip sideways through the wooden slats. Sometimes the boys next door join us, increasing our gang to eight. They tumble their way into our lives with loud voices and wrestling moves. I’ve never had brothers, but with them it feels close enough to count. All of us sit in a row, variations of sun kissed blonde hair and sunburned cheeks, a rainbow of popsicle juice sticking up our fingers and staining our tongues. Sometimes we chase the ice cream truck instead, worn dollars from our allowances clutched in our hands. Most of the time we just listen to its tune, a soundtrack to our summer, an acknowledgement to our childhood. As we grow older, our group splinters in a similar way to the fence we still slip through. Not broken, just worn. Our range of ages more apparent, some too old, some too young. We are a straining rubber band, strung together by our childhood but stretched by our experiences, by the people we have all become. We remain taut, strong enough not to break, but never with the closeness we once had. I can’t remember the last time I let popsicle juice drip down my fingers, the last time we sat next to each other on the deck, our laughter being carried by the wind. It’s weird to think about that space and time that occupied our childhood, when we were a collective “kids”, not worried about our ages or our grades, about the friends we had or the games we chose to play. Kenzie left first, weaving in and out of our story as she entered each new chapter before us. David left second, his interests and ambitions not quite overlapping, his joy not found as often in the storybook of our neighborhood. Nell left third, always a call away but still a step ahead. Sydney and I left at the same time, always in match on our paths even when they began to diverge. We left behind the others. Mark. Ally. Taylor. I don’t know when they’ll leave the refuge that was our row of houses. Taylor will go last, always jumping to catch up. But we will all go. We went from kindergarten to college, from diving in the pool to driving in the car. The yellow swings that once carried us back and forth have disappeared from the back yard. Our chalk drawings have long since been washed away by rain. My memories remain, of climbing trees and foam swords, of halloween and hills explored. A part of me will always be sitting on the back of that deck, legs hanging off the edge, with seven other children next to me. The eight of us might never sit on the deck the way we used to, but we intertwine back together in groups of two, three, four, five, eight. We go back for fireworks in the backyard and burgers on the grill. We go back for casual conversation and meet-ups at the coffee shop on the corner. We go back for memories of smiles, and laughter, and popsicle juice dripping down our fingers.