July 20th, 2004

Smoke in the forest

Just a little story...

I love LC. He's the first person to teach me to play M:TG, he's a man of compassion and strength and morality and love that doesn't have to be showy.  He listens and he hears and he's ADD and he forgets everything, and he's married to a beautiful woman.  And he is the protagonist of one of my most cherished memories of adolescence:

We were at camp, beautiful Camp Mack, when I was in eighth grade, for a weekend retreat on the subject of Conscientious Objection and Peacemaking, or something like that.  In the evenings, we had a lot of freedom to do as we liked.  LC and I went on a walk around the lake, by moonlight, through the shadowed paths out to the Living Cross (one of the times I walked in the dark and didn't panic and run, or perhaps I did.  I think I must have, back then) and back to the tower of wood overlooking the lake.
We stood on the tower, the two of us, leaning against the railing and staring out over a foggy sky illuminated with the translucent pallor of reflected moonlight, the moon itself huge and silver and rising, and he put an arm around my shoulders, and he leaned in, ran his fingers through my hair, and took a long slow inhalation.  And then he leaned back again, and softly, in the same tones we had been conversing all evening - so as not to carry, he said to me:
"Your hair smells like napalm.  Only, without the gasoline."

And I, that night, recalled what I knew about napalm and the purpose of our coming there, and I was so flattered.
  • Current Mood
    nostalgic nostalgic