beyond belief

We dropped Tucker at sleepaway camp last weekend
and I have been thinking about him all week,
like plugging in a crockpot, maybe
some kind of exercise in vague worry.

But the worry kept shifting
because
we signed him up for this, sent him willingly.
And it has been our privilege to fret.

He might learn that foil sheets are for campfire vegetables
and he already knows that cages are for batting practice.

He will come home
and we will do normal things together,
separating yolks from whites
for sponge cake
and splitting hostas
to share with neighbors

while families are breaking the desert in half to be here
while politicians are playing games with the truth
and the plot is lost.

But Tucker will find his way home.
He will tell us about archery and hiking and cooking and card games
and he will tell us about a large yellow moth
drenched in the downpour,
pummeled and practically stuck to the porch rail
until Tucker opened the door
and let it in.