There’s a squee sign on my kitchen counter
and a mountain of dirty clothes still packed in my suitcase.
There’s a mailbag whose contents I’m reluctant to explore.
If I wait will the holy presence of camp linger even longer?

There’s a fire flickering in my fireplace
but no monster-costumed campers are leaning in
warming their hands and chortling
at the ineffectiveness of paper products as kindling.

Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.

There’s a red maple stretching into the sky just beyond my window
but its branches are a stark silhouette against the gray November sky.
Not one leaf remains; no blaze of glory yellow foliage,
no story tree sign, no campers rolling in the leaves and laughing.

Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.

There are no forever friends rocking on my back porch
sharing stories of struggles and victories; telling jokes to shrieks of glee.
The only sounds are the shuffle of the wind through tall grasses
and the squawk of Canada geese flying overhead.

Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.

I try my hardest to fill four days of camp with memories enough
to last a year, a lifetime even. I memorize your smiles; I recall our conversations.
I hang your art on my studio walls and pin your notes on my bulletin board.
I treasure my horde of 20 thingies as if they’re gifts from the gods — they’re that precious.

All ways to see you, to hear you, to know you all are with me still.