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i come back home without my things 'cause the clothes i wore out there i will not wear 'round you

[the avett brothers]

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zach: you've been oregonified. i can see it.

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There was a woman at the camp shower. I stared at her because I couldn't stop. Also I knew she didn't mind.
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The part of me that still makes up stories in my head was convinced that she was a mermaid. Maybe the first and last one. Her face was like the good kind of gingerbread cookie, creased and browned by warmth and growth. Her eyes were like pools set in her brow, deeply green, and looking into them was like looking into an underwater cave.
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But the thing about her that felt the most wonderful was her hair. It was both golden and white, thick and extravagant, piled on her head like treasure. It was smooth, lovely, with a sheen as if she'd bathed in rainwater. I told her that I loved it. It felt wrong to let her go without confessing my thrall.
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She laughed, ran a long-fingered hand over her face. I can't do a thing with it in this heat, she said, not believing a word, and waved goodbye. It used to look just like yours, she said over her shoulder.
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I cannot explain the hope that this gave me.