kristy bowen | writer

The past couple of days have been waterlogged, both here in the city and up in Wisconsin, where I spent some time amongst the gentle rolling hills and fields of corn up in old stomping grounds from childhood, including a family picnic with cousins and such in the same campground that housed summer trailers that belonged to my grandmother and an aunt & uncle (and now my cousin.) The views from their deck look out over the lake, which was topped by dark and looming clouds that dropped an excessive amount of rain over our sheltered gathering not just once, but twice. It's strange how memory works, superimposing the present over the past..so many of the old bones of the campground are still there. The shelter/rec room we were in once was a dark building inhabited by bats we'd been warned against. The playground that once harbored a sandy playground made from tires and a fallen tree trunk engraved with grafitti now harbored kid safe rubber playground equipment. The bathrooms new...