My favorite conversation topic is deciding which words undeniably fit together for no reason other than an overpowering personal feeling. For example, deciding that Thursdays are green sevens and Wednesdays are blue fifteens. There isn’t a better way to explain it than that, certain words intensely resemble others and can be paired together to interchangeably describe a feeling or event. 

My favorite correlation is driveways being summertime. 

Oftentimes, these connections don’t really have any meaning, like how I can’t explain why I so strongly believe carrots are September and knitting is orange juice. However, I could describe for pages why driveways are summertime. 

I could be biased, but nothing is more summery than my driveway; the intense slant provides a perfect angle to lay on when cloud watching, and the deep fractures perfectly house the prettiest weeds. 

Over the years, our driveway has graciously accepted my siblings and my chalk art, the leftover suds from car washes and garage clean-outs, run-off from pre-swim sunscreen spraying, and drips from orange popsicles (the best flavor). These moments are the innermost core memories of my childhood summers. 

As I’ve gotten older, my driveway has been the hotspot for summertime painting sessions and nighttime dance performances. The place of a summer breakup, and a summer, “you don’t need him anyway,” pick up. Thanks to those slabs of cement, I’ve had a location for dozens of waves to a car full of girls ready for the best beach days ever, and a home base to awkwardly stand while saying goodbye after exhausting sleepovers.  

The best thing about driveways though is that they are universally summer. Whether it’s the hint of an indoor-outdoor feel or everyone’s shared experiences with their driveways, they are a safe haven in teenage summers. 

This month, as the weather is finally getting warmer and the humidity is capturing an aroma of growing plants and leftover rain, I am finally sitting on driveways again. In times when we just as easily could’ve sat inside or gone to an area with more scenic views, my friends and I chatted for hours in driveways. Twice in one week, on the same collection of cement, I’ve spilled my life story over a perfect balance of sugary sprinkles and vanilla ice cream.

In the past, driveways have been the place where I spent hours passing volleyballs, learning it probably isn’t the sport for me, and where I’ve spent hours in socially distanced lawn chairs during one of the weirder summers of my life. Overall, the most functional, seemingly irrelevant aspect of my landscape has held some of the most monumental moments there have been.

This year, I’ve already been offered a job in the warmth of the bottom right square of my driveway and walked up to my garage on at least five separate occasions with a cup of ice cream. I genuinely can’t wait for the rest of the moments, this summer and for many to come, that will be trapped in the eight cement squares of my driveway.