The word “queef” was introduced into my vocabulary in the summer after sixth grade. A few of the neighborhood kids and I were eating dinner at my house—hot dogs if I remember correctly. My mom was with us. 

My friend Mike, who was the token funny guy out of our group, had taught me the word queef earlier that day but had not told me what it meant—presumably because he, himself, didn’t know. Naturally, I pretended to know what it meant and proceeded to introduce it into my vocabulary. 

On this specific instance, Mike and I were saying things like, “This hot dog is such a queef!” and “It’s so queefy outside”. My mother sat there laughing because she knew the definition of the q-word and was very aware that neither of us were privy to that information. 

My younger brother, who was nine at the time, asked “What’s a queef?” And my mom said, “Why don’t you tell him, Kendall?”

“You’ll know when you’re older,” I said. And thank God my mom let the subject drop rather than embarrassing me in front of my friends. 

Later that night I sneakily tried to look up the definition online. I couldn’t find it anywhere because I was actually looking for the definition of, “kweef”. 

That awkward moment when I just ran into my ex’s ex… In front of my own apartment building.

When I think about last summer I think of Allston.

I think of being sticky sweaty hot and smoking cigarettes on the roof of an apartment building that smelled like cats with someone who was as lonely me.

I think of looking out at the view of the city and wondering how I got to that spot, and relishing how temporary it all was.