Every summer for oh so many years, David and I made the pilgrimage. Eisner Camp opening day. We would get each boy settled into his bunk, or do whatever they would let us do before they pushed us out the door. At the very minimum, they let us make the bed.
Then we would wander. Peek at them reuniting with old friends, counselors, people they hadn’t seen in ten months. I remember those days so clearly, living vicariously through their camp joy, watching it wash over them. And then slowly, we would inch toward the car.
We’d reunite too, with parents we only ever saw at drop-off or pick-up, friends who existed only in this particular latitude of summer. And then we would leave. Sort of like ripping off a bandaid.
Great Barrington, next stop.
The stationery store first, for fun cards. Then sushi at my favorite restaurant, where we’d write each of our sons a letter. Then the post office, because mailing from Great Barrington meant the letters would arrive sooner, and of course that mattered enormously. Then the cheese shop, for treats to bring home. Then the art supply store, where I’d buy something for myself, some small creative gift.
The drive home was quiet and quick. We’d arrive in the early evening and slowly, gently, inch toward our summer rhythm. Walks around the lake. Nothing big for dinner. Friends. Leisure without obligation, except for the obsessive checking of the camp photo website, scrolling and scrolling, searching for the faces we missed so much.
