the year I turned twelve, my innocent life became incomprehensibly complicated. That was the year I got my period, growing tall and thin. It was the year I grew cruel toward my mother for reasons I didn’t understand. It was the year my best friend French-kissed a boy, and I felt left behind. And it was the year my dad decided he would teach me to play golf.

The memories of learning the game rush toward me certain summer evenings when I step onto my front porch at dusk. A symphony of frogs, crickets, and cicadas begin their serenade to the cooling night, and the scent of freshly mowed grass permeates the air. The potent combination of forest music, fading heat, and the dewy, sweet-grass smell breaks over me like a wave, tossing me back to those years of golfing with my father.