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One terrible time, my parents left me at camp.
I gripped my teeth and tried to make friends.
My mom had equipped me with postcards
addressed to herself.
I hadn’t been alone or by myself for years, or so I thought.
I didn’t know what alone meant.
Mail call—an uncertain term to a child’s ears,
a child trying to get used to a cot.
My worry was always about making friends
and if they would be quiet when I slept.
Would I ever hear a song again,
my older siblings’ records kept safe
now that I was at camp.
I bunched up my bones
and decided I would never miss anybody again.