I was 22 the first summer I directed an overnight camp. "They didn't make camp directors this young" the dads said burrowing. "Oh yeah" I laughed with an easy and forced chuckle.
Summer camp. It gives and it takes.
Each year, more gifts: a deep and abiding relationship that ebbs and flows and fills and fulfills. Two small balls of love and energy, oh how they give and take. Windows that open first to breezes and splashes and the crisp of cold. And a resume. Yes. Of skills that encompass buzz words here and gone: coach, engage, resolve, experiment, respond.
And it takes. Furiously. Feverishly. Grabbing handfuls of time, pockets of energy. Days and weeks. Demanding, delaying. Trading sweet, smoked stained memory making for the dog days of city summer.
And so a single track, the notes picking up the corners of my mouth. Out of context and far away. Takes me there.
A bus exhaust, sun sweat, festival wafting, slow walk home. Summer friends and summer love. Our song. Our drink. Our place. Declared in unison. No one left behind. A motley crew of lazy tees, sloppy shoes and finger run hair. Intertwined hands and bottoms of feet. Drink and skip. Laugh 'til we cry.
Give. give. give.
Jessie's Girl. You know, I wish that I had...
