It was one of those things that I wished didn't have to be done. Definitely something to be put off to another day. Any other day. Just not now. It was an odious task at best, I was charged with cleaning out the room that was catty-corner to mine. It was summer camp again, and the campers were off at their myriad of activities. I was their counselor, charged with being a role model and with keeping their daily lives running smoothly. The heavy weight of the noon-day sun glared at me, winking silently through the window panes. I reminisced about my days as a camper. Did I ever think of what hardship the counselors had to do for me while I was gone? Probably not. I can remember one time, running wide-eyed through the forest outside of our cabin over the ashen ground. I had tripped and fallen flat on my face, scraped up pretty badly if I remember correctly. Hoping for any sort of succor I called out for my counselor to come help me. I hadn't been very far from the cabin. He had been writing in his journal, a book of musings he frequently wrote in. He dropped it and ran out the door, expecting bloody murder. His face was mirthless as he slowly approached me. He gave a scowling glance at my untied shoelaces and berated me for running too quickly outside and not paying enough attention to where I was going. I thought he had been my friend. I remember bursting into tears. For my kids, this summer, I had tried to be a good counselor: supportive, caring, and gentle. As I began the thankless task of cleaning out our cabin, I glanced outside at the tyrian-colored flowers blooming haphazardly by the stoop. As I swept up the room with the pearl-colored broom I was suddenly cognizant of the splendor of summer camp. A time for kids to be away from their parents, to enjoy the outdoors, to be care free. A dynamic time in their life, where they could begin to feel the first inklings of who they are and what life is all about.