Camp was a lover. Keeping me in her fond embrace, she kept me young and whole, shutting out the world and keeping me free from distractions and wants, letting me concentrate on being me.
Now she is a dowager, a shadow of her former self. For one brief period we pretended we were young again, but we both knew it was an act, some desperate play as we stared aging and death in the face.
We couldn’t recapture who we once were, we could only play-act that we did, in the meantime becoming totally self-aware of the changes of who we had become, how things weren’t were they used to be.
Do we do it again some time? Go through the dance, pretending that we are young again? Or do we accept who we have become and time’s reckoning, moving forward never to embrace again?