The first time I heard the song “Time in a Bottle” by Jim Croce, I was sitting in a van driving back from a camping trip in June. Surrounded by my cabin mates, all of us were tired from a night of mediocre sleep in a wind-battered tent. One of my best friends, Coco, asked our counselor to play that song on the van’s radio. Its haunting melody and poignant lyrics stuck with me, if only because Coco wouldn’t stop singing it from that point on. But as Coco began the refrain for the fiftieth time, I finally stopped to consider the meaning. If I could save time in a bottle, what moment would I save?
As the summer progressed, I often thought of “Time in a Bottle” at significant moments. Watching 4th of July fireworks on the shores of the lake, hiking Franconia Ridge with my friends, going to the nearby candy store as a reward for keeping our cabins perfectly clean. As the end of camp drew nearer, I thought of “Time in a Bottle” more and more. I wanted to remember each moment, even the ones that were less important. Washing my face in the morning at the outdoor sink, sitting outside the dining hall waiting for meals to begin, running into the cold lake for swim class.
The second time I heard Time in a Bottle was also in a van. This time it was on the way back from a trip into town for the local county fair. Full of sunshine and strawberry lemonade, the song seemed to mean more than ever. Once we were back at camp, Coco and I made a plan. We were going to sing the song at the chapel service on the last day of camp. “We’re going to make everyone cry,” we joked as we signed up.
Armed with freshly-printed lyrics from our counselor, Coco and I headed down to the waterfront during free swim. We sat on a towel on the warm sand, looking out on the crystal-green lake, and sang the song through a couple of times before getting distracted by the task of burying Coco in the sand.
Now with our plan in place, and the end of camp looming, I couldn’t help thinking of Time in a Bottle at the strangest times. Sweeping the dining hall during morning chores, brushing my teeth at the outdoor sinks at night, hearing the bell ring. The song was seriously stuck in my head. It seemed like every lyric fit perfectly to that summer, which was our last as campers. I did want to make days last forever; I did feel like these people were the ones I wanted to go through time with.
Before I knew it, the last day rolled around. All of a sudden time was moving too fast. I wanted to, well, save it. In a bottle. And then chapel was over, and Coco and I made eye contact, rose from our seats, and made our way to the front of the chapel. I wiped my eyes, a futile gesture, and laughed when Coco did the same. I pulled the crumpled-up lyrics out of my pocket. We began to sing.
We got through the song one time before the words got lost in our sobbing. It should have been so embarrassing; we were crying in front of all the parents, counselors, and campers. But it wasn’t. It would have bothered a younger me, but it didn’t bother me then. All that mattered was that I was with Coco, and we were singing our song. Time was rushing us toward a moment in which we would have to go our separate ways, and there was no way to stop it or to save it for later. There was only one thing to do: savor it.
A counselor motioned for us to go join the rest of our cabin mates. As we left the chapel for the last time, I heard the counselors pick up the song where we had left off. I looked down the sun-dappled path and saw our cabin mates waiting for us. Coco and I ran to meet them and enjoy the little time we had left together.
