My mom was a camper.
She still is.
She and my niece Eva and myself visited her camp for family weekend just over a month ago.
My mom was proud.
To have her with us, yes.
But mostly, for us to see her heaven.
Camp Desoto, Mentone Alabama.
This camp was the home of her childhood and blue was the color of her blood.
Camp cheers echoed against the trees with little girls belting out the sounds of giants, their neck veins bulging and throats like sandpaper by sunset.
My mom took the train to camp from Louisiana every summer, staying for one month, sometimes two, singing camp songs the whole way.
When we stood in a circle last month, right before a game was shared, the weekend lead counselor and game extraordinaire asked us to introduce ourselves and state our age, where we were from, you know… the usual.
“Ohh..uhh.. you don’t have to say your age.”
She blushed, the corners of her eyes glancing up at my mom out of respect and embarrassment.
My mom went first.
“Well, I’m Kathleen and I’m 69 years old and this is my favorite place in the world.”
So unmistakably confident.
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My mom would pull the car over first thing.
To greet the ocean.
My brothers and I would laugh, poke fun, stay in the car.
But my mom, her eyes were glued to the beauty and depth of the ocean.
Like it was her first time to see it, every time.
She belonged here.
In crowded, way too crowded Florida.
Kids on bikes, with wet hair, salty smells, and sticky fingers.
Ice cream cones galore.
I remember watching her back as she peeled further from the boxy, Cheeto-crumb van.
Her back and everything attached to it got smaller as she was pulled from the car to the ocean, its magnetic force overpowering her need to check in or eat something or unpack.
Her pink and white striped shirt and blue shorts disappearing toward the ocean, all in a trance.
I’ve never seen her happier.