Memories of the Island

We didn’t care then. Looks didn’t matter.

Especially not at camp.

The rain was pouring down, slapping the dirt paths

mixing with them to make mud.

The trek from the arts and crafts shed to the dining hall

was far but

we were determined to make it.

Stepping outside the wooden-framed screen door,

tip-toeing from the wet wooden patio to the muck below.

We looked at each other, water droplets dripping

down our noses,

plopping onto our cheeks.

We nodded.

And we were off, running faster than we ever had before.

Our feet pounded the dirt road,

sloshing mud up behind us

and on the backs of our legs.

A few times we narrowly avoided a face plant into the
brown sludge beneath us.

We soon made it to the dining hall,

covered in mud, soaking wet, and shivering,

hair sticking to our faces and shoulders, ready for some
hot chocolate.

We didn’t care then. Looks didn’t matter.

Especially not at camp.