Counting Kisses

Every summer I send my daughter to camp. Two weeks alone in a woods filled with strangers. She had never been away from home for so long. The first year was hard. She was eleven.

To keep her spirits up and remind her she’s in my thoughts and heart always, I write. Every day, composing long letters detailing the hours of the day, the actions, the thoughts, and random things like jokes or trivia. A group of hedgehogs (does such a thing ever occur in nature?) is known as an array. Who knew?

The second year, I write a little less. Every other day.

In 2019, she is now a veteran camper, a teenager on the cusp of real life changes, with real life friends around her and weeks of outdoor adventures to experience. She doesn’t need the things she used to in quite the same way. She doesn’t need my dense, distracting prose. I write only twice. The first a well-worn “miss you” missive. The second, as brief as the other was long.

My tired little baby, do you need a kiss?

Ten little kisses on teeny tiny toes

Nine laughing kisses on busy, wriggly feet

Eight squishy kisses on chubby, yummy knees

Seven loud kisses on pretty belly button

Six tickly kisses on baby’s dimpled chin

Five quick kisses on an itty bitty nose

Four warm kisses on two baby hands

Three fuzzy kisses on sweet little ears

Two gentle kisses on tired closing eyes

One last kiss on your sleepy, dreamy head

And now its time for baby’s bed.

A few days after she returns we sit on the beach and watch the sunrise over the Atlantic. I ask her how camp was. “Fine,” she replies.

Have fun? “Yeah.”

Anything else? “No.”

No? “Well … you didn’t send me the box of candy I asked you to.”

No, I didn’t. But I did write. “Yeah, not as much as mama … But … your letter made me cry … a little.”

Did it? I smile.

Memories.