Daily Write: Snap, Crackle, Pop

Once a Summer, the whole of Camp would don long sleeves and bug spray, and grabbing flashlights, slowly trek deep into the farthest reaches of the property upon which the camp sat, in rural Maine. At dusk this journey began, the older girls watching out for the younger, suddenly solemn and wanting to be motherly caretakers, wanting this night to be peaceful and perfect for everyone. Girls holding hands, carefully placing their feet on the path of dried pine needles so as to avoid the treacherous roots of the towering evergreens all around, lighting the way for one another, panning their flashlight beams over the terrain ahead. Deeper into the woods, darkness fell quickly, and it was incredible how quiet and serious 120 girls, the eldest only 15, could be. Gone was the typical giggling, chatting, and even the pervasive singing that rang throughout Camp the rest of the season. In their place, hushed whispers, downcast eyes, and an arm wrapped 'round another's shoulder. Arriving at the bonfire site, listening to the pops of water and air bubbles exploding from the logs, watching the showers of sparks burst upwards, zipping and zig-zagging skyward, each girl held her secret carefully. Written in soft graphite on a dry piece of birch bark, she awaited her chance to set this secret free, and be rid of its weight, anticipating the quick sizzle and bright flare of the flames as they engulfed her private message, no longer needing to be kept hidden, and no longer needing to be told.