Robert Phillips

Letter to My Mother

You helped me pack for that milestone
event, first time away from home alone.
It didn't matter the summer camp was poor—
long on Jesus, short on funds—bordering

a tea-colored lake. No matter we could afford
only two weeks. To help get there I hoarded
months of allowances. I was ten, felt grown,
I finally was going somewhere on my own.

You folded the ironed tee-shirts and skivvies
—you even ironed and creased my dungarees.
In Southern drawl: "And of course you'll dress
for dinner!" you said, packing with the rest

my one blazer, dress shirts, and rep tie.
I didn't protest, I was an innocent stander-by.
(The suitcase was a new brown Samsonite.
Even empty that thing never was light.)

First exhilarating day—after softball, archery,
diving instruction (which I took to swimmingly)—
came rest hour. While others took a shower
or wrote postcards home, I dressed for dinner:

the white shirt, the pre-tied striped tie,
the navy jacket. In process I received a wry
glance from my counselor. The dinner bell tolled,
I felt every bit the gentleman as I strolled

toward the rustic dining room. I entered,
the room exploded with boyish hoots and laughter,
pointing at me, the funniest thing they'd seen.
They still had on their shorts or jeans.
The rest of the two weeks were impossible.
Not chosen for any teams, called a fool,
Mother, I was miserable through and through.
But when I came home I never told you.
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