My Kids

As many of you know, I just got back from working at summer camp. I've been wanting to write a poem about camp for a long time, but there were too many feelings, memories, and moments to capture in one poem. Besides, everything felt really cheesy. I was attempting to write an essay on camp, when the first two lines of this poem popped into my head, and I knew I had the beginning I was looking for. I don't know if I successfully steered away for the cheesy, but I think the poem accurately captures not only my feelings about camp, but also many of the memories I have from there.

I hope that there is some universal truths captured in this poem as well that will resonate with you even if you've never worked at a camp before. Without further ado, here is the poem.

My Kids
By Melody Beerbower 8-24-2019

I call them my kids,
But they're not really mine.
How could they be?
There are too many of them.
Eight in a cabin
Three cabins a week
seven weeks of the summer
Four years in a row...
How could they all be mine?

I've forgotten many names,
Though there's always an Amaya, a Britney, a Kailey,
I do remember the dark brown eyes
The hazel, the green, the blue.
I remember the smiles, the pouts
The long red hair, the bright blue weave,
The blond braids, the prickly undercut
The zig-zagged cornrows.

I remember their skin as dark as charcoal,
Coffee beans, coco,
Light as caramel, yellow as the sand on the beach,
Olive, tan, pale, pink as a sunburned cloud.
I remember the bruised, the scared
The smooth, the ashy, the hairy, the freckled.
I remember then much shorter
The year before.
They always insist on coming back older
Than they were.

How could they be mine?
They all have families.
Dad in jail. Mother on drugs.
Or was it the other way 'round?
Lots of grandmas who love them,
And grandmas who don't.
Aunts and cousins
Step-brothers and half-sisters
Older siblings who are more like parents,
And close friends who are more like family
Than those related by blood.
Biological, adopted,
Fostering, homeless

I wonder what they will remember...
A skinny white girl with a big smile,
A little too energetic,
Who wore strange costumes and was always singing,
Who taught them about God
And how to forgive. 

Will they remember the buzz of the fan on hot nights
When I stepped into the cabin
To scold them and sing them to sleep?

Will they remember the cold lake water
That splashed their face
As we dashed in holding hands and screaming?

The Bible verses sung with raspy voices
Worn out from cheering?
The picnic table talks
Where they spilled their frustrations
And we discussed how Jesus would react?

The thunk of an arrow hitting the target for the first time.
The joy of capturing tiny toads.
The smooth speed of slipping down the water slide

The simple fireside stories
Spoken as the sun turned the lake and sky
A deeper orange than the fire that flickered before them...

What makes you belong to someone?
Is it traced through the blood:
Mother, father, sister, brother?
Is it based on the authority they hold over you?
Caregiver, guardian,
Teacher, correction officer.
Or is it more?

I was responsible for them for a week.
I've been called Mama.
And teacher.
Been cussed at,
And told I was hated,
But I loved each one of them
And so 
I call them my kids--
Even though I know they belong to others
Even though I may not see them again.
And it's ok,
Because I know who they truly belong to
And He is able to care for them better
Than I even could. 

Hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to pray for the kids in you life, even if they're not really yours. :)