The tickling my mom inflicts on me feels stress-free when the sun joins in. On the three stories of our summer house, I feel human. I feared life when the last local cat first sat on my lap and refused to go, and I loved my ears every time I heard a car roll up the driveway; still, I recognize every grain of sand that faults the carpet when I take steady path to the beach-like, turquoise bathroom, and I enjoy the different perspective I have to the cats that come and go – my height allows me to enjoy the outside views that always seem to tell me about the whole world as if I hadn’t seen it before.

The many colors and memorabilia around the rooms seem like they should give off a bizarre smell. None do – the wooden walls and mutually comforting kitchen fill the house with a tone I’d love not to be too familiar with, so I could feel it again at night, and again in the morning. Once dialed to the right focus, the colors start to make some sense – though the hosts’ daughter’s art portfolio oddly patterns the walls and tries to fill the already tight spaces between the cupboard and fridge, the sofa and bottom stairs, and the chairs and the tables, at least the colors are finally justified. The living room’s far side blues contrast the warm tones of the kitchen, floor tiles and sunshine.

Smilla – a kinder name than her character. The first time I ever experienced grief was when I heard that the first cat of the house had died. I’ve never had pets at home, so she’s always been my only animal friend. My nostalgic summer memories always hold much space for Smilla, a friend still. Now, the queen of late-night knocks on windows and slashes at goers-by fills the space of a special chair. There is no summer here without five meows an hour, synonymous to a closed window or empty cat bowl. Though I fear Mikija and the fact that she’ll never take her place on any lap, I feel comforted by the unchanging fact that the resilient nature of the local cats is passed on.

For every memory, I attribute a character. The 2020 Covid-stricken me, the regretablly-fashioned me of 2016, or the similarly shaped me of last year, I always remember to look through the lens of me as if I was a different soul than the present. The context, the opinions, views, regrets. For every memory here, the lens disappears. The source of my memories here seems eternal, that, no matter how I change, the person I am here always seems to be me. And, that nothing would change in my sight, focus and love if I went back to any summer I’ve had here. My experience fails to change.

With the little tradition that I can hold myself to, I find that much repeats here. My unique birthday cake routine I’ll never let break, the first week of June and the first meeting with a cold sea, failed reading attempts and a day without a phone. Everyone that follows me here always find their summer recipe fits well. My guide – the cake that’s awfully convincing and the best path through the dunes of the small valley the short journey to the sea holds – can only compliment the warmth of the sun and the expectations of the hour drive’s window views.

I return with family, and I return with friends. A new carpet finally meets a sandy pair of feet. A painting makes its way down two flights of stairs to the room with the best view – portraits, too, should see. The chair muffles a meow. The moon shines enough for the log over the stream to feel safe. And, enough for night-time swims to have silhouettes. I return with mom, who tickles me just once this summer. The sun shined, and I was calm.