Đurđevdan

I do remember summers at the Cape. I remember being small in that beach house every year. I remember running through the sand. I can see bright-white Tom Sawyer fences and peeling clapboard garages. I smile in remembrance of exciting afternoons at Cape Cod Summer League games, when my feet didn’t reach the cement and the back of my chair was above my head.

Except — I have never Summered anywhere. I am California, born and bred. “Woods Hole” sounds aspirationally foreign, and I eat my white chowder while absorbing brawling sea lions’ brine. I have been to Massachusetts once. My oceans are for sunsets, and they’re bracingly cold. My beach attire is my normal wardrobe. I do not own “summer” clothes.

When do you become so intertwined with another that your stories are his anecdotes, his nostalgia becomes your memory? Is it the day you realize forever’s performance might just manifest reality (whatever the hell either of those is)? Is it the day  you sing with your eyes closed in his presence? Is it the day you don’t even think about taming your pubic hair? Is it the day you finally can shit when he’s in your zip code? Is it the day you become big spoon, or the one on which he does your laundry? Maybe it’s when your dog chooses him over you on your hike.

Today, I smiled, remembering the day I slayed that dragon. Then I remembered I never faced that dragon — that was someone else. So, as we sing,

Njeno ime neka se spominje
Svakog drugog dana
Svakog drugog dana
Osim đurđevdana,

it only seems appropriate that I’ve also been wishing to honor my father, and only eerie that today, in fact, does happen to be Djurdjevdan. Crazy how your brain knows which songs should be stuck in your head on a given day.

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