The Bluestocking 2022-23

The pine trees cry with laughter. They see the humour in it all. When the first tripper laughs, breaking through the panic, it echoes and bounces playfully across the lake. I cry tears with the trees. I shout and sing songs along with my friends and fight against the way the wind and rain try to steal the melody away.

When we arrive at the closest island, the pine trees stand tall and blind to our misfor tune. They’re too young, I think. Don’t ruin their fun. My white shirt is soaked through, revealing my bra underneath. I redden and hide away in the tent.

We pack our sopping wet belongings away and into the canoe; a singular blink of my eye, transporting me to this last morning. Time giggles through the gaps of the trees and I shake my head at what a trickster it is.

The bus pulls away as the collar of my shirt picks up a pattern of salty splotches. I loved the trees so much, I thought. I should have realized how amazing it was to be surround ed by them, protected by them. I shouldn’t have hidden away in the tent. I should have skipped the rocks. I should have gotten the muddy earth on my hands, underneath my fingernails. I should have scraped my knees, to be kissed better by my mom. I should have held on to it. I scramble to pick up all the memories, as they slip underneath the wheels of the bus.

The bus pulls into my eighteenth birthday, abruptly dropping me off. Stepping off, I am bitten and stung by the chill in the air. Here, the pine trees are gone.

My childhood is gone.