The interior work—what the transplant left behind, what the silence turns up, and the questions that don’t resolve.
The woman at the camp store didn’t believe the card was mine; she said I didn’t look old enough. I qualified under the other half of the rule. I’d come back to camping after most of a lifetime away, not at all sure I’d still want it.
Weeks of lists, gear videos, and a spreadsheet I kept telling myself was almost done. I finally packed what I actually had instead of what I still meant to buy, and left. I had gloves. I had sanitizing wipes. I did not have pillows.
I could get in the car right now and drive to the Smokies. Nothing and nobody would stop me. What surprised me was my own reaction to that—not exhilaration, not fear, but something a lot flatter.
