If the world were a canoe lake. (Or: A better baptism; Last days.)

There is a moment when everything changes.

Standing on the dock of the canoe lake at 7 am in a bathing suit, crowding close to friends for warmth and smiles, waiting. Glasses off, the lake is a blur – so is the dock, your partners, your toes. AJ agrees to “lead the blind,” taking you and another by the hand as you edge your feet carefully down the stairs and onto the floating dock. A smile. 1, 2 – 3, jump. You come up spluttering, the water warm – you find faces in the gray water around you, steam rising up and up from the bath.

 It is H20′s birthday, and your last full day at camp; as you splash your way into the group, “Happy birthday” is screeched at the top of lungs. Campers are here somewhere, but you don’t notice them, not now: instead the people with whom you have shared the past two months are in sight, laughing as they splash and bob. The hovering steam skews reality; the moment lasts and stretches until you are moving toward the edge of the lake, hand in AJ’s hand, everything cold and changed. AJ grins a grin that reaches her eyes. In a few hours you will say goodbye to her. In a day this will all be over.

You drape a towel around your shoulders. Your friends beckon you to follow them; muddy feet balancing halfway into your boots, you lean forward into a tottering walk beside them, laughing as you listen to their devious plans to surprise hug a fellow staffer. A shiver reaches your calves, your neck, your spine. Magic shifts inside the morning air.