camp.

If I close my eyes it feels like I'm still there.

I can hear the clatter of plates and the clamber

to be first in line for breakfast,

and now I'm walking the shady way back to the cabin, dappled with sunlight and shadows of trees,

the flagpole is still there, waving in the wind,

announcements, has anyone found my water bottle yet?

Tetherball--I always lose.

The pond, the murky green water, jumping in, thinking I'll regret it,

but I don't--it's cold, and the air is warm.

I always had someone to jump with me on the water trampoline,

until I didn't.

The cabins--only the tiniest sliver of sun penetrating the dark wood planks,

names scratched onto them like gravestones. I write mine

every year, along with

Best summer ever.

I never imagined it wouldn't be.

Siesta, I hear my cabin talking,

we exchange notes, I laugh with my friends--

no, but those were only some years. Some years

I sat alone and read my book trying to drown out the noise.

And then I remember the arts center, the chapel songs, 

the afternoon sun glistening over the lake,

and I wonder how memories can be filled with such joy and such sadness,

Fruitfulls melting on my tongue, hunting for a friend to talk to.

Where are you?
Are you anywhere?

Birthdays, almost every day is special,

the counselors have created something amazing for evening activity,

or something I try to tell myself will be amazing,

and after dinner dining hall disco bursts through the loudspeakers and we dance

as we follow the traffic flow and scrape food off of plates.

And then there it is, the Intermediate Fire Circle--

no, but before that, I was a Junior,

and we met on the lawn in our Crazy Creek chairs, outside of sunny cabins and we sang

We're here, we love it and we're psyched that we came

as counselors who seemed magical to us jumped around in their Birkenstocks

and old T-shirts.

It feels like forever ago, an entirely different time and an entirely different place,

but last summer I was there,

somehow I was, even though it didn't feel the same.

I remember the wash house, that rancid smell

dozens of tired girls waiting in line

to brush their teeth and do their skincare before cabin chat--

oh, and I remember that too, passing around scented candles

the bright burning flame in between us, as we

shared our highlights of the day and answered the chat question.

Earlier in the night, we sat in a circle, holding hands, right arm over left,

singing about days passed away in the flicker of the campfire.

A slideshow played on the projector screen

at the Open Circle, surrounded by woods, and arm in arm we sang

along with "Castle on the Hill."

I found my heart and broke it here, made friends and lost them through the years.

We left and I found my friends, my real friends, not the ones in my cabin,

and I hugged them and cried and told them that I couldn't do this.

This camp was too much, this love that had turned to anger and betrayal

was too much to carry with me summer after summer.

I held my five-year pin tight between my fingers--

I'd gone long enough, I'd had enough--

and when my dad came to pick me up, I said goodbye.

I could no longer be tossed around by the currents of unpredictable summers,

led astray by the monstrous waves.

From now on, I won't delude myself with memories of perfect summers, and

I may never love a place as much as I once loved camp, and

maybe that's a good thing.

I will be okay. I don't need that love.

But

if I close my eyes it feels like I'm still there.