One son, then 16, was at summer sleep away camp for a month. Son two, 12 was headed up for sixteen days. I sent along a few things to restock the older brother; sandals, a football magazine, razor and shaving cream. I can’t be sure if I explained to younger son to give the bag to his brother. Maybe. But if so, not well enough.
They returned smelly, exhausted and trampling over each other to tell zany camp stories -- the crazy things their cabin mates did, the crazier thingstheir counselors let them do. We pack the car up with half-filled duffel bags and overfilled laundry bags and drive immediately to lunch. The only thing they’ve missed more than our Brittany Spaniel is Punch Pizza.
As we walk from the car, I trip over the little brother’s sandals, and he missteps.
“Why does everyone keep doing that?” I look down at the plastic sandals, the front foot loop, nearly torn from the base. My son’s heel is a good two inches ahead of the sandal's end.
“Everyone keeps doing that because those are your brother’s. You were supposed to bring them to his cabin.”
“Oh,” says the younger.
“That’s where my stuff was,” says the older.
“Did you wonder why I sent shaving stuff with you?" I ask the younger.
“I thought I might need to start. I was at camp for two weeks.”
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