A Stone’s Throw: 1996
6:00 AM at Camp Neyati is slate gray, wet – time for me to be at work making eggs and biscuits, setting up trays for campers. I haven’t slept, crept down here sliding on pine needles to the edge of the lake where I once saw an otter turn underwater flips cracking muscles. As a little girl I dug my arm into this mud and pulled out crawdads big as lobsters.
The green flash of sun in the bream scales, the black eye, the worm, the hook, and all the fear missing, that’s what I come here looking for, hangover at the waters edge.
Behind me, the Jesus graffiti on the cinder block basement walls. The mayflies heave. Blackbirds crackle in the Sweet Gum. Swings creak. There is no stillness, but I know.
I’m poisoned, and I know I’m not alone. I throw a stone at Him, and then I go in.