I unroll my yoga mat at a studio in my hometown, scattering sand all over the floor. I’m embarrassed.

As I lay on my mat, I think of everyone leaving camp each June heading back to their hometowns. How much sand is picked up on kids’ beach towels and moms’ flip flops? The flip flops that are then worn to the town pool, or the grocery store, or are left outside of cabins overnight. This same sand, that I’ve now accidentally scattered around me, has the possibility to exist anywhere.

I find myself transported back to that little valley, tucked in between the mountains of Fort Hill, Pennsylvania. Like pixie dust, the sand works its magic, and my head and heart fill with the memories of when I was a child; diving to the bottom of turquoise waters for a handful of sand; posing in front of my cabin for my mom, as my sister throws her arm around me; swimming in the lake with my closest friends. Even now, as my family drives through the front gate of camp, we roll down the windows to make sure we can breathe in as much of that mountain air as we can, getting more drunk off that than we would off Rolling Rock.

I sleep my best at camp, on the stiff, plastic mattress, with the windows of cabin #25 wide open, listening to the bugs hum along to the sound of the fans in all of the cabins. My sister next to me and my mom below me, on the bottom bunk beds, because I always have to take the top one. And when I wake up the next morning, it's to the sound of screen doors slamming as kids run to the dining hall, and parents say good morning to one another, over the sound of the breakfast bell being rung. Except for Saturday morning, when we all leave, I wake up to everyone saying “See you next year!”