Pine trees. Unpaved paths. Raw stones.
We walked. And walked.
And talked.
She was already married. Her flowered silk scarf wound perfectly around her head made her face glow from inside. Her eyes were fire alive with the joy of a new bride yet now like her hair covered and secretive.
We were both at the same camp in the mountains.
She was Shira wife of the camp director.
I was a counselor.
I still remember the songs our bunk made up about mosquitoes. The smell of the wood cabins. The fear of bats. Towels from the lake not hung up in time. And the lines of half-sleeping girls patiently standing in the fresh cold morning mountain air waiting their turns at the three sinks
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