nebagamon

i don't believe in

coincidence, so when

the bathroom at our

first pitstop up to

my husband's childhood

camp is playing

i will survive

i take it as a sign

and hear the song out

and stare at my

unrecognizable face

in the mirror, i've

aged decades, the

burning sensation will

continue the doctors

said when they discharged

me, but i think more

is burning than tissue

what's it all about alphie,

i hum on the way back

to the car, we drive for

another three or four hours,

i slip in and out of sleep

upon arrival, i take a photo

of my husband under the big

camp sign, it's been fifty years,

he says to the camp director,

i shuffle behind hoping

they don't see my grey

pallor, the director points

to the statue of paul bunyan

and he and my husband

reflect how nothing has

changed, come join us for

lunch, the director says and

we follow him to the dining hall

it's family camp and

the dining hall is filled

with moms in sun visors

and dads with dad socks

and teenagers and babies

and tacos and salad for the

vegans and everyone

has their own water

bottles

we fill our plates and

find the only empty seats

way at the back, we

chat with the director

who turns out lived in

almaty when we were in

astana and we share stories

about international schools

and kumis and georgian

wine and learning russian

and how hard it is to find

home

the bell rings and it's rest time

so we walk to the lake and a

child about ten points to a

water fountain and

says this is the freshest

one, then takes a gulp to

prove his point, yes,

fresh and cold, i say

thank you and am stunned

at the self-possession

of this child

though, he is not unique,

here in this hamlet,

this oasis

am i dreaming the hum

of the cicadas and the

happy roaming children

and the rustling of

the leaves?

we sit in the shade along

the lake watching children

play and i begin to weep, a trickle

at first then avalanche, my

heart or maybe the injured

part inside still too tender

even to fully inhale

can hardly hold such sweetness

or maybe my heart has

come home, maybe that

night, lying in my acid,

lying in the certainty of

death, i lost something, maybe

i lost the ability to fight the

soft suppleness of clouds

and the song of a cool late

summer breeze and the

beckoning water

so i walk to the lake

and scoop all the water

i can in my hands and flood

my face with some kind of

tear