Camp Crystal Pond

            My earliest memory is only fleeting—but intrusive. Often at the most inconvenient times, it launches forward from the recesses of my mind and takes center stage, replaying the scene in flashes, a series of dreamy images that time has undoubtedly warped, yet that I never forget.

            Campsites. They were carved out of a heavily wooded area full of ancient oaks and stately pines, small lakes and streams sprinkled throughout, and a large body of water bordering one side of the campground. I used to try and remember if camping was something we did often, as a family, but I was too small at the time to have known and, after what happened, we never went again.

            My parents opted for an authentic camping experience. They’d packed enough food for several days, a small grill, fire-starters, a tent, sleeping bags. The whole shebang. My sister, Nico, and I were excited to roast marshmallows over an open fire like we’d seen people do on TV, but when we got to the site my dad regretfully told us he’d forgotten to buy them.

            After a little while of arguing passive aggressively in hushed voices, mom and dad managed to pitch our tent at the far edge of the campsite, across from the creek where Nico and I were splashing around, pretending to be forest fairies. No longer distracted, our mom saw us getting our clothes wet and shouted for us to come back to the car.

            The next moment that I can recall comes later, after nighttime had already draped its dark cloak over the forest and I’d been sleeping restlessly in the tent for hours. I woke up to the distinct tearing sound of the zipper at the entrance of our tent as someone exited, zipping up the flap as they left. I blinked wearily, trying to make out any shapes in the dark. When I’d fallen asleep Nico had been right next to me, but now her sleeping bag was lying empty on the ground.

            “Mommy?” I remember asking the darkness. There was no response. “Daddy?” Silence. Fear suddenly blossomed in my chest, creeping slowly up my throat.

             I scrambled to the front of the tent, tripping over the suitcase my sister and I were sharing. I fumbled with the zipper, hurrying outside.

            I emerged into the wilderness. The only sources of light were the dimly glowing moon and the flickering lantern left lit on the picnic table outside our tent.

            Looking around frantically but seeing no one, I began to panic.

            “Mommy?” I yelled. “Daddy?” The car was still parked at the edge of the campsite. The firepit was cooled, showing no signs of recent use. I didn’t hear any voices, or even footsteps. Nothing made sense.

            I scurried over to the lantern and snatched it from the table, then made a beeline for the main path. I scrambled down the dirt road, back the way we’d driven up through the woods. I knew that before long I’d reach the front office of the campground, or even one of the bathrooms, one of which my family had to be at.