The Teapot

After a day of rain, it had taken well over an hour to get the fire going. Towels and bathing suits hung over canvass-backed chairs and the firewood laid out to dry. While my sister crouched in the bushes to pee, I tossed tea bags and boiling water into my teapot. I saw her scan the skies, stand and rush back to the campsite, pants undone, a wall of water pursuing her. She rushed frantically, to and fro, throwing towels and suits and chairs into the van. I stood beneath the tent awning, holding my teapot, watching it rain.