The Days Ride Away

I trundled along a bumpy dirt road, bouncing in time to her rhythm. I watched as the
enormous, sparkling leaves of aged, crinkly trees danced slowly in tandem with the
wind. I began to notice an irritating buzzing in my ear but soon forgot it had once
pained me, for it gradually grew into the soft, melodious voice of infatuation. I had met
camp for the first time, and I had fallen in love.

The days came and went at a distressing speed, riding on the wings of the
birds that streaked the color splattered afternoon sky. My interactions with the other
inhabitants of this smiling dwelling held up my overall experience like the mighty
stone pillars of the Coliseum. I might have forgotten that I lived someplace else had I
not been counting down the days until the past would meet the future with increasing
disgruntlement.

Each night, she came to my bed and spoke of war and peace, comedy
and tragedy, tradition and change. I came to expect these gentle summertime talks,
cherish them, and show them off to the world. I was careful to memorize all her words
and teachings, even pass them on to others. But I never, ever, let someone come to
close or touch these precious moments, for who could sustain the sorrow of losing
them?

Even though she is home to many, camp is all my own.