Summers, we live like savages out at our mother’s fish camp. We don’t bathe. We wear the same clothes for weeks. Our smells swim through the tent, thick and oily. Our teeth remain unbrushed and after a few days our gums give off a salty, rusty taste we find companionable. We dig our tongues against our teeth, savor.

Our manners go to hell. We eat with our hands, wipe them in the brush or on our already soiled tee-shirts. We don’t say “please” or “thank you.” We reach and grab; we take what we want, out there surrounded by so much water, so much abundance. Dinner could be berries and warm cans of soda or fresh salmon we fry over the fire. We eat too much sugar, soft marshmallows and bags of circus peanuts. Our bellies grumble with satisfaction.

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