Sweet Sara Summers
Summers were meant to stretch on forever. Friendships? Just the same.
I giggled as the grass tickled my toes. The distance between us disappeared fast. Within seconds, Sara was right behind me, arm outstretched to “freeze” me with her tag.
“You’re IT!” she squealed, squirmed out of reach, and ran off so I couldn’t return the favor.
Instead, I ran after another kid in our group and did just as Sara had.
The sun was high overhead as we took a quick break between games. Sprawled out in the grass, we tried to catch our breath. We stared up at the trees, their scraggly branches like fingers, beckoning us upward.
“Let’s go!” she called. She was at the base of the tree before I even reached a sitting position.
“I can see the world from here!” she shouted, arms outstretched. “Hello, my kingdom.”
She gave me a wink that said it all. Adventure was waiting, and she had already decided we were going.
When we were both six, Sara and her family had moved in next door. A neighbor my age was the best gift I could’ve received as a child. Those were the days when parents didn’t have to lock doors, and the only knocks came in the form of neighbor kids asking if so-and-so could come outside to play. We were rarely turned down.
The best part of our neighborhood was our stretch of road because our backyards touched the emerald lake behind them. Swimming was Sara’s favorite, and I swear she was part fish. I loved jumping off Dad’s sailboat into the shallow end. (I didn’t float well.)
My favorite role was taunting Sara: “I bet you can’t cannonball off the sailboat!”
And then she did. She always did.
It was an extra-special day when she invited me over to her house. She had her own room, a luxury I didn’t have with three other siblings at the time. It was just her, her older sister, and their parents. We didn’t play at her house often since the Michigan summer beckoned us outside. Rare rainy days held us indoors. At her house, it was magical. More time to spend together, and I never cared what we did.
Being around Sara was like being transported to a completely different world.
“You’ve got to come out here!” she yelled through our screened front door to my siblings and me one afternoon.
“Why?” We didn’t really need to ask. (I always longed for her next invitation.)
“Two Words: Golden Retriever.”
Griffin sparked screams of delight as she launched into our arms. The softest fur tickled our arms and noses. Her excitement was fueled by our own. Having a neighbor as my best friend was amazing, but having an adorable dog next door was the icing on the cake.
We survived elementary school, and middle school brought challenges Sara helped turn into entertainment. Instead of studying during study hall, she’d whisper what she proposed the other students and even the teacher were thinking. We would hold it in as long as we could until the fits of silent laughter forced tears down our faces.
In Family Living Class, each student, including the boys, got baby dolls to care for as our final exam. Sara didn’t tell the teacher when I let the boys I was attempting to impress throw my doll around before Science. I got an A+ on the exam. She never used my foolishness as a weapon.
We enrolled in driver’s training together. When questions were posed to the group, her hand flew into the air. The answers weren’t always correct, but that level of boldness commanded respect. She led by example, urging me to take risks, and not just when it came to climbing trees, jumping in lakes, and impressing boys. Sara believed the world rewarded the brave.
The best thing about being college roommates was not having to knock on the door or ask our parents when it was time to play. “Play” these days looked more like grabbing coffee with friends or pizza dates with crushes. One night when she and I were on a double date with a couple of guys from Speech Class we thought were nice, she busted out laughing and almost decorated her date’s jacket with pepperoni.
Later in our room, she asked, “Be honest. Too much?”
I smiled and shook my head. “You’re the coolest person I know. Anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out.” I meant every word.
Christmas Eve Day brought a foot of snow, which nestled into every corner of the landscape. The new winter coat felt like a fresh start. The neighborhood was quiet. Everyone had settled in for the night, or so I thought. Then I got the call. A drunk driver had hit Sara’s car.
I was certain she’d brush it off like every other tough thing she’d experienced in her life. Right?
Wrong.
Sara was gone.
For a long time, I waited for her to burst through a door and tell me it was all some elaborate misunderstanding. She didn’t.
Years later, when a kind, steady man asked if he could take me to dinner, I felt the old instinct to hesitate rise in my throat.
I could almost see her beside me, eyes bright, grin forming, ready to nudge. I could feel the courage she loaned me all those years.
So I said yes.
She had practiced “yes” her whole life. Even in her absence, she was still teaching me how.
Sara’s presence can still be felt in every brave “yes” that follows.
I imagined the wink that always meant, go on.