I have the proof time is not linear. I discovered it it two months ago, that weekend on the windy bluff over Lake Michigan. Sleeping in a bunk next to the camp diva and across from a captain I considered an adult, even though she's only two years older than me, diagonal from a duo I'd never guess would have formed the most lasting friendship, huh.
The worst way to wake up, then and now, is metal clinks and the faint pawing for swimsuits. I couldn't believe I was hearing it in my 30s. "What are you doing?" I groggily begged from under my blanket. "Dipping!" the gung-ho crew cheered. I didn't think we were going to do the old thing--wrap in towels and run down the beach steps and jump in. But turns out people were, and I am people.
I have four or five thousand takeaways from the precious days, but if I had to chose one I might say caring is contagious. Like on Friday night when the evening activity was bombardment and yes, I got dressed in yellow, and yes, I laced up my sneakers, but I did not expect to try. Only when you're split into your ride or die teams and on the courts with aggressive sisters from every generation, what choice do you have? Or like when we had to make up intro chants and council fire. I surveyed all the clumps, every face serious, every brow furrowed. Every person on the dinky talent show stage giving everything. Anyone invited to the Mafia circle buzzed with glee. No one didn't try.
Re; generations, if I were afforded two takeaways I might say generations of women are just important. They just are. I need to see women older than me having fun. I need to hear women younger than me. I need to be who I am. All of us need each other, by the way.
What else? Canoeing through the silver tube for the last time ever. It makes me want to cry if I think about it too much, so I can't. I forgot my glasses before the talent show. I did as a teen too. My same legs ran from the top of the hill down the wood chip grove to grab them. Singing on the bus. Singing on the deck. Looking out over the long road from the meadow, after we zip lined but before we hid under the evergreens.
Fine! If I were afforded three takeaways, I might also add nothing last forever besides everything you've ever thought about. ____ gives me a petoskey stone, my first, and says her truth. Like the first star did at midnight. Like the most annoying girl did too, what, twenty years ago? And I see you still, when I look out to the manitous from the perch. Like a projector plays you walking by. And if no one else comes to the show, I'll be an audience of one, until the erosion is too quick to contain and every cabin sinks into the water.
