EMILY PRATT SLATIN

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She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Retired Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer, living in Vermont.

A Logistical Problem With A Dinner Deadline

July 14, 2026—Middletown Springs, Vermont (Home)

Today I received a standardized email from my summer camp informing me that the alumni reunion had been canceled.

I was not sure how I was supposed to feel. Relief, perhaps. Maybe some private satisfaction that nobody else could go either, even though I had submitted my reunion request and never heard back in the first place.

It is difficult to be excluded from an event that no longer exists.

The cancellation resolved the practical question without answering the personal one. I still do not know whether I was ever on the list, whether anyone saw my request, or whether the entire thing disappeared before somebody had to decide what to do with me. The camp finally answered, but only to tell everyone there was nothing to attend.

When I read the email, I thought about my first year at camp.

I was the odd one who never quite fit. As that summer continued, it became increasingly apparent that I was being overlooked. Eventually, I stopped focusing on inclusion and began paying attention to the gaps in supervision instead.

There were plenty. Before long, I was spending most of my time in the woods behind camp, building forts out of fallen trees. I would eventually return barefoot, naked, and covered in pine needles, which should have generated at least one follow-up question.

The staff simply told me to take a shower and get ready for mealtime.

There was no reprimand. There was no conversation. Nobody asked where I had been, why I had returned without my clothes, or if there was anything wrong. A naked child covered in pine needles was treated as a logistical problem with a dinner deadline.

For years, I interpreted the freedom I had at camp as trust. Perhaps some of it was. But trust and failure to notice can look remarkably similar from a distance. The difference is whether someone sees the child before deciding to leave her alone.

The pine trees said nothing, of course, but I felt more love and connection from them than I did from the other children. The woods gave me somewhere to exist without having to determine whether I had been invited. I used what had fallen to build shelter. I did not need anyone to organize my inclusion.

The adults saw pine needles that needed to be washed away before dinner. I saw evidence that I had been somewhere I belonged.

The reunion mattered more than I admitted. I did not believe one weekend could restore childhood, and I know the people who knew me then do not necessarily know the woman I became. Still, I wanted to find out whether I occupied enough space in their memories to be recognized.

I wanted an answer to the question people carry through friendships but rarely ask directly:

Did this matter to you, too?

The camp never answered.

Instead, it canceled the reunion and sent a standardized notice. Nobody gets to return. Nobody gets to gather in the buildings, revisit the paths, or compare what they remember against what remains. It would be dishonest to say that brings me no satisfaction. It would also be dishonest to call that satisfaction happiness.

I suppose I could always hitchhike back to the place and grab pictures of the place again—if I cared enough.

Amelia told me she has a new girlfriend. She is in love again for the first time. I am happy for her.

Romantic love is allowed to announce itself. It receives titles, anniversaries, expectations, and a recognized place in a person’s life. Friendship is expected to remain emotionally modest, as though needing our friends too much indicates a structural failure somewhere else. My heart has never respected categories.

I am deeply in love with my friends. I need friendship more than I let on to Amelia, and perhaps more than I let on to anyone.