When I was younger, I had very vivid memories of when my family and I would go camping.

It was my favorite thing to do, and we always tried to go at least twice a year, whenever

a warmer weather would allow it.

For a long time, it was that way, always the same campsite too.

There was a post by the campsite that we used to mark how tall I was each time we went.

Thin dark lines showing the passage of time.

Then we just stopped going.

But asked my dad why we didn't go anymore, and he would offer vague excuses.

With a wave of a hand, he would tell me he was just too busy and was never willing to

go further into the discussion.

It was not until I was a bit older when I figured out what might have been the real reason.

As a kid, memories of our final camping trip were not all that odd, since I just didn't

understand what happened.

But with enough time, hindsight had made it clear why my father did not want to go back.

I remember wandering off the campsite, I didn't walk all that far away, and I could swear

it had only been a few minutes, and then I heard my dad scream for me.

Little scream you'd expect to hear when first calling out for someone.

It was a ragged and desperate cry, like the shaking howl of someone pleading for something

that they had already convinced themselves was not going to happen.

I went towards his voice and he saw me.

He dropped to his knees.

It was almost like he didn't believe I was real.

...