In the year of our Lord two thousand and nine I went camping with a friend. There was a lake near my parent's house with a small island that I thought would make for a perfect campsite. The only boat we had was a canoe and the only way to launch it was to walk over a hill with chest-high grass and push out amongst thick reeds and mud.

Our sweat was flowing freely by the time we reached the water. We nearly tipped the canoe--full of gear and supplies--multiple times while trying to launch in the dense, swampy entrance to the lake. But finally we were out.

My parents had agreed to the trip so long as we brought long range walkie talkies. This is an odd detail. We were seventeen at the time.

"We made it, over." I said as we stepped ashore. We were excited to relax and enjoy the summer evening. It wasn't much later that we realized we had very little for dinner. We had agreed in advance to split the meal responsibilities; I brought breakfast and my friend was in charge of the evening meal.

He brought microwave popcorn and a single can of alphabet soup--with no pot.

We made a fire, heated the soup, and burned popcorn kernels. My friend--we'll call him Mitchell the genius--decided to try for a fish while I gave up all for lost and broke into the vodka.

Miraculously, before sundown, Mitchell caught an edible sized bass. We had, in keeping with the theme, only a butter knife and little to no knowledge on fileting fish. I think it was an especially dull butter knife. That, or the vodka had begun to set in. I felt poorly for the fish. At any rate, we ate fresh bass and got drunk on marshmallows and smirnoff.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by Mitchell the genius frantically throwing logs into our tent. The thin walls were flapping wildly.

"It's raining!" shouted my travel companion.

If we hadn't been drunk, I suspect we would have been terribly frightened by the storm. My parents informed us after(the radios had been turned off for the night or died. I can't remember) that there was lightning and a few trees knocked down from the wind. Mostly I yelled at Mitchell for throwing logs at me and we fell back asleep.

At breakfast there was bacon for the hangover. And we made our groggy way home.

I think, increasingly, of how simultaneously foolish and lucky we were. The island was small--with a handful of short trees that our tent was perched in the middle of. We could have fared much worse.

I believed, then, that I had a lifetime ahead of me.

I catch myself believing, now, that I am on the other side of that lifetime; looking back as though through a one way tunnel. Listening to the drip, drip of the ever present trickling stream of death.

It sounds like a rainstorm.

Lightning could quite easily have taken us that evening. I could quite easily have triple my years still to come.

Yet here I stand: clutching my can of alphabet soup and microwave popcorn and cursing my luck. Believing, wholeheartedly, that Mitchell won't catch a fish.

I've not believed in miracles for a very, very long time.

Yet here we all are.

In the year of our Lord two thousand and nine I went camping with a friend. There was a lake near my parent's house with a small island that I thought would make for a perfect campsite. The only boat we had was a canoe and the only way to launch it was to walk over a hill with chest-high grass and push out amongst thick reeds and mud.

Our sweat was flowing freely by the time we reached the water. We nearly tipped the canoe--full of gear and supplies--multiple times while trying to launch in the dense, swampy entrance to the lake. But finally we were out.

My parents had agreed to the trip so long as we brought long range walkie talkies. This is an odd detail. We were seventeen at the time.

"We made it, over." I said as we stepped ashore. We were excited to relax and enjoy the summer evening. It wasn't much later that we realized we had very little for dinner. We had agreed in advance to split the meal responsibilities; I brought breakfast and my friend was in charge of the evening meal.

He brought microwave popcorn and a single can of alphabet soup--with no pot.

We made a fire, heated the soup, and burned popcorn kernels. My friend--we'll call him Mitchell the genius--decided to try for a fish while I gave up all for lost and broke into the vodka.

Miraculously, before sundown, Mitchell caught an edible sized bass. We had, in keeping with the theme, only a butter knife and little to no knowledge on fileting fish. I think it was an especially dull butter knife. That, or the vodka had begun to set in. I felt poorly for the fish. At any rate, we ate fresh bass and got drunk on marshmallows and smirnoff.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by Mitchell the genius frantically throwing logs into our tent. The thin walls were flapping wildly.

"It's raining!" shouted my travel companion.

If we hadn't been drunk, I suspect we would have been terribly frightened by the storm. My parents informed us after(the radios had been turned off for the night or died. I can't remember) that there was lightning and a few trees knocked down from the wind. Mostly I yelled at Mitchell for throwing logs at me and we fell back asleep.

At breakfast there was bacon for the hangover. And we made our groggy way home.

I think, increasingly, of how simultaneously foolish and lucky we were. The island was small--with a handful of short trees that our tent was perched in the middle of. We could have fared much worse.

I believed, then, that I had a lifetime ahead of me.

I catch myself believing, now, that I am on the other side of that lifetime; looking back as though through a one way tunnel. Listening to the drip, drip of the ever present trickling stream of death.

It sounds like a rainstorm.

Lightning could quite easily have taken us that evening. I could quite easily have triple my years still to come.

Yet here I stand: clutching my can of alphabet soup and microwave popcorn and cursing my luck. Believing, wholeheartedly, that Mitchell won't catch a fish.

I've not believed in miracles for a very, very long time.

Yet here we all are.