JUNE 2006
ARRIVAL
I step off the plane
out of the stale air
and breathe in
the very soul
of West Virginia.
A man named Billy
is waiting for me
under a sign that says
Nora Nichols.
He takes my bags
and leads me to a van
with the words
Camp Cradle Rock
printed on the side
in a promising shade of blue.
“You’re the only pickup today,”
he says.
In the van, I sit back
and watch the Blue Mountains
rise before me.
I feel like Dorothy
entering the Emerald City.
As we drive through forests
of deepening green,
I hear a hidden river
whispering between the trees.
Suddenly,
the forest clears
and a swath of rippling grass
spreads from the road
to the mountain,
like a tablecloth
set with four riding rings
dotted with horses
too many to count.
From the road
it is difficult to see
the rest of Camp Cradle Rock
nestled in
the dark skirts
of the mountain.
But I feel it there, waiting.
DROPPING THE BOMB
“Summer camp? Why?”
“It sounded fun.”
“But you don’t even like camping!”
“It’s camp, Kara, not camp-ing.”
“Nora, have you ever been to camp?
It’s all sports and color wars and screaming.”
“They have an arts and crafts program.
You know I like to draw.”
“I don’t get it. This is so not like you.”
Kara and I have been
best friends
since the day we wore
the same pink high-tops
to class in third grade.
She knows
almost all there is to know
about me.
But some wounds
are still tender,
and I can’t bring myself
to tell her
that I’m suffocating at home,
where I’m reminded of him
at every corner,
where his name
hangs heavy in the air,
like smog.
I need to get away.
Someplace where
the air is clean
and I can breathe deeply
once again.
FIRST DAY
Sitting in the dining hall,
at glossy tables painted
happy-face yellow,
staff training begins.
It feels
like the first day of school
and it’s hard
to concentrate
on schedules and procedures and rules
surrounded by sixty strangers,
wondering which of them
might become your friends.
Officially,
we’ll be divided
by unit and activity.
Unofficially,
we’ll divide ourselves
along the invisible, unspoken lines
of coolness.
But for now,
we’re one big mass
of possible friendships.
THE RAVEN'S NEST
This summer
I am not a girl
but a raven,
or rather
a keeper of ravens.
At Camp Cradle Rock
the units are named for birds,
from the littlest Chickadees
to the oldest Eagles
and everything in between—
Sparrow, Robin, Warbler, Wren, and
Raven—
the name given
to my assigned unit
and to the thirteen-year-old campers
who will roost here
for the summer.
Twenty-four fledglings
divided among three cabins—
cozy nests
set back in the trees,
each with a porch,
a clothesline,
and a narrow path
that snakes toward
a shared bathroom.
At the very heart of the unit
a group of weathered benches
surrounds a raked firepit.
Kala, our Unit Head,
Queen of Ravens,
strikes a match and
lights the first fire of
the summer.
“Welcome home, Ravens.”
SUMMER NAMES
None of the counselors
go by their first names.
They unfold their summer names
and step into them
like an old pair of shorts.
Kala
like the ukulele
she slings across her back.
Mezzo
for the parts she sings
in musicals back at home.
Tex
for the state she loves
and the Lone Star tattoo
that ripples across her left biceps.
Gilly
for the gills she should have
given how much time
she spends in the water.
No one explains
why Withers
is Withers,
but I wonder if
it’s because her silent stare
can shrivel a person
at a glance.
Kala waves
at the black forest
beyond the firepit.
“Out there you’re Nora.
Here you can be
whoever you want.
So, who’s it going to be?” ...
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