Summer has always been my favorite, but I’ve noticed a pattern over the last couple of years.

I look forward to it all year long—imagining the sparkle of the sun on the ocean as it rushes toward my feet, a breeze on a rooftop bar, long nights in backyards with fire pits glowing merrily. But last year—and definitely this year—I’ve fallen into such blues just as June comes around. This summer is strange thus far, and it’s not just because the weather has been less than optimal. We’re down to the last two days in July, and I always count August 1 as the official midpoint of the season.

I feel like I’ve been asleep for a lot of it. I remember long drives in June and breaks with my friends when I didn’t think about anything else, but for the most part, I don’t remember a lot of what’s gone on. This is a notion I think about a lot, though—what makes most days pass by without being remarkable? Why are only certain moments—even the most mundane—framed by my memory?

My mood took a turn for the better in the latter half of July. This has also happened before, in a phenomenon I’ve likened to a Rubik’s cube to my therapist before. Scumbag Brain takes over and moves colors where they don’t go, and sometimes, after spending so much time trying to move things back into place, one side just… snaps. Where was once chaos in remembering what I know versus what I feel, a couple of pieces slide into place and there it is: One side is solved.

“It’s just like I said,” I told him last night. “One small thing, one small change, and look at how much better I feel.”

While it’s a huge relief to have some things back in perspective, I can’t help feeling a little frustrated. I spent so many weeks trying to claw my way out to no avail. Why wasn’t I able to reach this type of “epiphany” sooner? Why was I so convinced that what would make me feel better wasn’t going to actually make me feel better?

I have to credit a lot of it to going far, far back into my memory, to the things that have comforted me the most. About two weeks ago, I was driving into Floral Park//Bellerose to meet up with a friend, and I really shouldn’t expect anything but consistency when it comes to traffic on Long Island. The Northern State was at a crawl, and when I realized it was going to take me way too long to get to the Cross Island, I hopped off at New Hyde Park Rd.

What a trip. I could vividly remember getting onto the parkway here to head east to see my friends while I was still living at home during college. I remembered coming this way to work my shifts at the Barnes & Noble in Manhasset. A huge new dispensary sat at the cross street on Union Tpke., next to a restaurant that’s been there for literally as long as I can remember. Cross Island Fruits was gone. Further down, near the turn for Hillside Ave., the little shopping center had completely new places, no shadow of Fashion Bug. I passed Lakeville Pharmacy and Surgical, where I worked during high school, now sold to a more commercial-sounding pharmacy. Further down Hillside was the diner where we went to dinner with my grandparents pretty often. I can remember the smell of hamburgers as one of the waitresses accidentally told Jen and I that we were going to be big sisters before our parents could. She apologized for it every single time we saw her afterward, even long after my brother was born.

For a split second, I thought about stopping in front of the house I grew up in, when I saw people in the backyard. I think about that brick-front, green-sided house a lot—I dream about it a lot, too. In my dreams, it’s always a completely different place, even though I’m still looking for the same rose-colored carpets and basement cedar closets.

This past weekend was Kells’ oldest daughter’s high school graduation party at her parents’ house, which might as well be the second house I grew up in. I could remember friends passing out next to the pool during the summer when we were 19 and all we did was party. One of those friends came by with her two daughters, who are both going into junior high school in September. I almost didn’t recognize two other friends until I realized I hadn’t seen her son since he was maybe a year old ((he’s about to be 18)) and I’d never even met her daughter. Kells’ cousin from Massachusetts made me laugh until I almost peed, like she used to. All we kept talking about the entire time was how fast the time had gone. It brought me back around to that notion of time passing with murk—so much going by, with only a few moments picked out in a highlight reel, and then suddenly, everything is different.

There has been so much, and there’s still so much more to go. So, into the latter half of the summer I stride, hoping I’ll remember what’s important. What’s always been true. What I know about the young adult who drove those roads in a terribly beat-up Toyota Corolla ((The Awesomemobile—even the windshield wipers didn’t work)) and then a beloved Volkswagen Cabrio—how she had no idea what was ahead of her, and was only starting to learn the techniques that would keep the darkest clouds at the horizon instead of across the whole sky. I’ve written before about how she faded a little before slipping through crevices, and how now, in the latter half of my life, she emerges—sassily coming from the shadows to snatch the Rubik’s cube from my hand, making quick work before handing it back to me and saying, “Here, I started it. You finish the rest.“