There’s camping and there’s camping. We camp with a grill, two stoves, and ten pounds of hash browns. We camp with a bottle of gin and a bottle of schnapps and two bottles of bourbon. Three full sized trucks, five tents, and one airstream. Four hammocks and more than a dozen chairs. Six bags of marshmallows. Two inflatable kayaks.
At the edge of the lake, the sky turns pink and gold spilling out across the still water. My niece poses in her endearing sassy way, smiling and then pursing her lips and then flipping her foot up by her hip, effortlessly twisting it in a way that only an eight-year-old can.
My niece says, What’s wrong? She can tell something is. A child’s intuition.
I tell her it’s nothing.
She stares at me.
I tell her: Sometimes grownups get sad too.
She doesn’t need to know that back home, away from pine trees and lakes and sunsets so gorgeous they hurt, my life is waiting for me. A separation. My partner no longer my partner. My house no longer my house. Sometimes six years is enough.
Sometimes, camping is more than just camping. The way the rest of the family pairs off to sleep in their tents or the airstream, and there I am alone beneath a pine tree that drips dew all night long. And when I have to get up to piss in the middle of the clear starry night, there is no one to make sure I come back again.
After the sunset, my niece and I have to walk up a hill covered in sticks and pinecones to the campsite. She threads her hand in mine, swinging our arms. She tells me that when she grows up, she wants to be just like me.
She mostly just wants her ears pierced and can she have my silver hoops? I tell her without telling her that she can have everything she wants.
Out loud, I tell her, We’ll see.
I ask her what she thinks we’re having for dinner. She says, Tacos, duh.
Later, I’ll be alone in my tent with the dew dripping on the nylon. I’ll think about how wonderful and terrible family is. My father hugging me like I’m something fragile. My brother refusing to make eye contact.
And my niece, her small hand, her bright face. Her idea of want: earrings of her own.
When we reach the cusp of the hill, she releases my hand and runs toward the campsite, toward the rest of our family. And I think yes, it is good to be away from me, her aunt. It is good to care about roasting marshmallows, drinking hot chocolate, all things camping.
I turn away from the campsite and my family to look at the lake again. All the pink has vanished. The sky is just the night tones now: silhouettes of pine trees against the water’s silvery surface.
Author's Note:
Always, for me, self-care looks like consistent exercise: running, hiking, climbing, swimming, yoga. I’ve found this essential for my brain, my body. Also: walking outside as much as I can. Being outside. Despite the weather. But self-care looks like a hot bath with a good book too. Writing every morning. A long conversation with a friend or a lover. I think self-care is less about the action, more about the intention. Maybe self-care is also a big glass of red wine with my cousin on top of the barn, the last light of day on the sunflowers. Maybe it’s perspective.
Allison Field Bell is a PhD candidate in Prose at the University of Utah, and she has an MFA in Fiction from New Mexico State University. She is the author of the poetry chapbook, WITHOUT WOMAN OR BODY, forthcoming summer 2025 from Finishing Line Press. Find her at allisonfieldbell.com.
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