Upon Your 16th Birthday

Do you remember our camping trip that one early summer, spread across four gloriously peaceful days? You were fresh off another year of grade school. I was desperate for silence. I never knew time could stand so perfectly still. You walked on child’s legs, bounding and bouncing through a wild, sprawling world fenced in by massive, aged oak trees nestled tightly around the muddiest of lakes. You searched out perfect sticks to poke holes deep into the earth. You uncovered the flattest rocks to skip on repeat. You transformed into a forest angel before my eyes—the most serene creature I would ever encounter.   

Do you remember the flimsy hotdogs we snaked onto wired forks. The canned chili we sizzled over an open flame in our trusty blackened pot. A $5 meal with a $100 taste. In between meals, you spit sunflower seeds so religiously, I expected holes to burn through your sweaty cheeks. Watching you churn out spent shells sitting in our America red, white, and blue lawn chair, I knew there could be no better companion as my child, snuggly resting in furniture built for an adult's body. There was no adult I would have had occupy that chair.    

Do you remember the impossibly long nights we slowly gave into? The blues fading into oranges fading into purples fading into pinks? Do you remember soaking up the lilting beams easing down from the stars, multiplying before our eyes? Our conversations danced in circles, stirred up possibilities, created ultimate scenarios, defined our time infinitely. Coyotes serenaded the lulls of silence, their lungs happily drunk on moon drops, picking up steam with night's arrival. I’d give all I have to see your growing face again under those night shadows.

Do your remember trudging the canoe through reeds tangled and twisted in the water? Our paddles sticking thick in the green sludge? Bullfrogs berating us, taunting us, mocking the strangers who dared glide through their space? You took the lead, paddling eagerly to move us ahead, arms burning force, breaths soaked in sweat, sighs seeped in satisfaction. I admired your persistent strength, too young to be undone by water plants and lazy frogs. Too determined to merely float aimlessly. You had places to be.

Do you remember the heaviness of regret while packing our tent? The hope that we bottled to unpack it soon? Do you remember the long road that took us out of those woods? Away from the lake waving goodbye in the rearview mirror? The miles we crossed returning home with remorse buried in our lungs? Often, I wish we’d never traveled home. Never rejoined the race. Never returned to familiarity. Often, when I’m unsettled, lacking faith, diminished complete, I imagine unrolling our sleeping bags, crawling inside, telling nighttime stories without pause so could never grow old. Often, when I watch you walk away, I imagine you’re off to find the perfect stick. I imagine you’re off to catch fireflies. I imagine you’re off to hide so I will seek. Often, when I see you sitting in a chair you now fill as an adult, I still see my beautiful forest angel.