.... and I Will Be Flying On a Broomstick

It always begins with a hotel by the lake on a warm summer’s day. The characters and the plot may change every year. But the setting remains the same. At a hotel whose stairways and corridors echo with old memories of laughter and conversation. No matter how many times you’ve been here, you’re always greeted with a thrill running down your spine.   Like the countless elevator rides you found yourself in every day, life during camp had its ups and downs. There were mornings when you had to drag your ass off the bed at 6:45 in the morning and brushed your teeth with eyes closed, looking like a zombie. There were times when your head was spinning and you felt like you were being flung off into space. At times like these, it’s the voices of your fellow camp leaders and camp staff asking, “Are you okay?” and their reassuring smiles that kept you from drifting away and anchored you in the moment.   If someone told you three years ago that you would and could take care of childr

Impatient hands. Tapping restlessly on the steel counter while waiting for their change.   Hands with dirt around the fingernails. Makes you wonder what they do for a living.   Weathered hands that shake with little tremors. You remember how you haven't seen your parents' hands for almost two years now. You would hate to see them tremble.   Perfectly manicured hands. Always accompanied by a whiff of expensive perfume. Hands with stubby fingers. Your mother once said, "People who have long, slender fingers are usually talented in the creative arts." You were crushed because you thought your creative career was doomed from the start.   Small hands that barely reach up to the counter. A shy voice saying, "One ice cream please."   Strong hands with callouses on the palms. Reminds you of your favorite pair of hands and the warmth they always provide.   Hands with veins popping out like landmark rivers on a map. How many people ha

Writers are strange beings. They are scared of a white blank page yet they’re not afraid to cut their hearts open again and again until there are no words left to bleed. They love silence. Perhaps a little bit too much for their own good. They always have a knack for noticing the little details that no one else really cares about. A crack on the pavement. The slight tremor in a voice. A shift in the air. They like to stare out of train windows. They enjoy conversations with the night and the rain.   When a writer loves you, they will hesitate to write about you. It’s not that they don’t want to. It’s quite the opposite. They want to write everything about you. From the warmth they see in your brown eyes to the comfort they find in your steady heart beat. Their hearts beat to the rhythm of the words pulsing through their veins, threatening to burst into a poem any minute. But they are scared to let those words out because they know words will be just words. No matter how hard they