The Version That Stuck

I drove up alone. Pitched the tent before dark.

One chair at the fire ring, one cup, one can

of something I heated and ate. The bark

was wet so the fire took time. I ran

out of things to do around ten

and just sat with it. Took a photo.

Drove home in the morning. And then

years went and the story got a shadow

cast across it — all of us in it now,

laughing, the version worn smooth by telling.

I don't know exactly when or how

the seam opened. Some easy swelling

of the story into something shared.

Tonight someone said remember when all of us —

and I held my plate and nodded. Cared

about nothing at that moment except the fuss

of getting through the sentence.

The photo's on a drive. One chair,

the fire ring, the dark. Its evidence

is specific. I've left it there.