We come to a clearing

with four boulders

like moss-covered

gnome houses

in a half circle,

a miniature Stonehenge.

We should camp here, Jorge says.

We unroll our packs.

I follow Jorge,

do what he does.

a.  Gather wood.

b.  Put small rocks in a circle for the fire between us.

c.  Clear brush.

d.  Use a tarp. The ground will be wet tonight.

e.  Keep watch.

Then, quietly, I whisper the Shema, a declaration of faith … as much as I can remember.

Roasted Hot Dogs

Jorge tells me to gather wood,

so I fill my arms

with sticks of all sizes.

Near an old log,

I step into a spring.

It’s covered in leaves,

hard to see,

and my feet

are soaked with mud.

When I wander back,

I see that he’s gathered at least

fifteen times my load.

He makes the sticks into a small tepee,

tells me to get matches,

and I pull out the big box from my pack,

strike one. Not yet! he says.

light

blow

fail

again until it works.

The orange fire rises in the dimness

of the evening coming on.

Trees fade into the sky,

the boulders illuminated in orange and yellow.

Starving,

we stretch long wire hangers

and roast hot dogs

until they are a little burned.

Jorge slides his into slices of bread;

I eat mine right off the hanger.

I put my feet near the fire,

but they can’t seem to get dry or warm.

Crush

Tell me about this diet, Jorge says.

It’s the first time he’s asked me.

In the orange fog,

I tell him about all of it,

growing up in New York,

always being overweight.

I list the names I’ve been called

and how I had to talk to all those doctors.

It’s sort of funny now when I say it to him, and we laugh.

Then we’re silent when I tell him about the bike path,

and about hurting myself,

and The Diet Book.

About Lisa,

about my father.

Later,

I eat celery stuffed with peanut butter (Level 3),

and Jorge burns marshmallows.

I think I do like her, I confess.

Like a crush?

Yeah, I say, I guess.

I forget sometimes,

because Jorge is so tall,

that he’s younger than us.

I don’t have a crush,

Jorge says. What’s it feel like?

I point at the fire with my

celery stick. Like that.

Like fire. All over the place,

it feels good from far away,

but you can’t really get near it.

Prayers

By the time we finish talking,

we are in our sleeping bags,

near the edge of the slowly ending fire.

Jorge puts his carved wooden cross

next to his sleeping bag.

My feet are freezing,

and my head aches

from so much walking.

I try to get warm inside my bag,

but it isn’t working.

Can you say a prayer for me too? I whisper.

He does.

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