The smoke flared up in the midnight sky
and hundreds of mosquitoes
buzzed around the campfire.
It was a rumor then
that when you tighten your thigh
while a mosquito is sucking your blood,
it’ll blow up.
We left our parents
by the warmth of the fire
to play a skilled game
of hide and seek in the dark
before they sent us to bed.
I hid.
In my perfect hiding spot,
underneath the bush,
by the end of the driveway,
smashed up against the side of the garage.
I could faintly see our parents
huddled around the cloud of smoke
from the campfire,
every once in a while
slapping their skin,
not believing the possibility
of a mosquito blowing up.
They had no faith
not in mosquitoes,
not in me.
I lay there lonesome and scared,
anxiously waiting for someone
to seek me,
but they never did,
and I heard the sound
of my mosquito-slapping parents
sending us to bed.