The Art of Withstanding

It was the hottest day of the year.

As I turned my back to the sun’s rays, blisters danced along my shoulders, and each breath filled my lungs with fury and hot air. Smoke drifted into my nostrils, and I grinned, knowing it wasn’t me who was on fire. I pressed my hands to the crimson-red wood of the deck, and as water dripped from my fingertips, the planks sizzled like a hot pan. My hands were cool but puckered from being submerged in water. I stood on tiptoes to reach the deck, the crinkled floor beneath me flooded and etched lines into my toes. My shoulders could fry eggs, radiating heat, but the rest of my body remained calm, fluid, and tame.

I knew I should slink down into the safety of the water, hide from the sun, but I wouldn’t. I’d be scolded beyond the scars the sun would leave behind, but I liked watching her.

I released the deck and let the water take me as I leaned back, drifting. Water washed over my shoulders, extinguishing their rage. She sat on the deck, unaware of my gaze. Posed like a model torn from a vintage magazine, she wore a black polka dot bathing suit with frills at the waist and a wide-brimmed white sunhat. She sat atop a beach towel patterned with seahorses, spread out on the steaming deck. A book rested in her right hand, held high to shield her face. Her left hand brought a cigarette to her lips without hesitation; it was muscle memory, robotic. Her legs glimmered with body oil, sprawled to one side as she leaned on her left hip. She could have been cut from a 1950s swimsuit ad. Classic. Poised. Weathered but not from the sun.

The click and hiss of her lighter caught my attention. She looked up and noticed me watching.

“Doing okay out there? Remember, only a few more minutes or your mom’s going to know you were out here.”

I grinned, prideful and free, nodded, and continued drifting with the pool’s gentle tides. I admired her not for wanting to be like her, but for the way people admire art. She was beautiful, one-of-a-kind, enchanting. But I feared the cost of touching or breaking her. I didn’t want to understand the fury or pain it took to become such a masterpiece. She hadn’t been born this way. That kind of strength required time, loss, and will.

Even submerged, my skin wept in agony. On a day like this, I should have been sheltered indoors, blinds drawn tight, television light flickering. But summer was her season. She lay on the deck like a lizard sunning. The heat energized her. Solar-powered. While I was drained, drenched in solar. She kept my secret, letting me bask beside her for twenty minutes—maybe twenty-five or thirty if she got caught in her book. She didn’t minimize my body’s toxic response to the sun, but she swore the heat was therapy for our souls.

She said the sun would help us forget. It was like a blanket fresh from the dryer, wrapping us in warmth. The sun could boil this pool and watch us cook like sea creatures, but it chose not to. I kept my eyes locked on her and sank lower until water reached my chin. A crocodile is watching. She had built this deck—well, instructed others as they built it for her. She chose the wine-red stain, the chairs that burned the backs of thighs, the ladder installed just for me. She thought of everything. She cared for everything. She longed for control. She could command a room just by choosing which hand to light her cigarette with. That was a strength. And I was mystified by it.

I wished for her strength. Not the strength of muscle, she didn’t have that, and neither did I. Her strength was deeper. She called to me, waving her book. “Come now! Time to get out!” I swam to the ladder, depleted, fizzing like an opened soda. I gripped the bars and climbed, each shaky step an effort. My left foot touched the deck, and it burned, stove-hot. I walked on tiptoe across the sizzling planks, grabbed my towel. Water fell from me, but it didn’t cool the wood. My tank was empty, and I wanted to crawl under the wood and shelter myself from the burns, but when I looked at her, she was filled with joy. The heat hasn't touched her as if it knows better. The heat doesn't bother her, as she can command it, too.

She packed up her things and stood. Graceful. Effortless. We walked down the deck steps in silence. She didn’t ask if I was tired. She didn’t ask if I needed help. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. Her strength didn’t diminish me; instead, it expected me to be strong too. And so I was.

Once we reached the cement leading to her house, she wrapped herself tightly in her towel. “I’m taking a shower when we get inside. You drink some Gatorade and nap on the couch, alright?” It wasn’t a question; it was an assignment. She lit another cigarette and told me to go inside. I pulled open the glass door and was slapped by arctic air. Cold. Crisp. My lungs rejoiced. I looked back at her, wondering how she withstood the heat so easily, how it didn’t break her, didn’t make her scream. I knew because I could withstand it too, but it looked different on me. I knew her real secret was that heat or burning didn't scar her. Scars were no big deal throughout the journey of life. I knew she was too focused to give in.

She laughed in the heat. She cackled at warnings to stay inside. The hottest day of the year was child’s play to her. I admired her strength. I longed for resilience. And I thanked her for reminding me I was a fighter too.

On the hottest days, while she baked and restored, I was grateful for her silent guidance.