Sigh.

 

I miss the guileless insouciance of our younger days at Crochet Camp where we’d while away our afternoons sitting back-to-back against a sturdy sapling in our geo-patterned macramé leotards with nothing to do but contemplate our place in the natural beauty around us, our heads as cocked as our emerging youth and the lives awaiting us as hard as the tree keeping us upright. I look back fondly on those warm-but-not-too-warm-for-macramé summer days and wonder what our younger, less-constrained-by-the-simple-gifts-of-natural-fibers-and-neutral-colors selves would think of us now. But we can’t go back. We can never go back.