One night my husband and I sat by the river next to a fire, grilling sausages and feeding one another, watching a circus of stars overhead, and listening to the night. It's a secluded area where we often go when the city and its heat start to melt our brains and fry our souls. One night we heard children some ways down the shore. They sounded young and excited, their voices squeaking through the brush and the trees. My husband walked up and found seven children, sisters, brothers, and cousins, there with a young uncle who had brought them out because they'd never been camping. John (my husband) made our traditional sacrifice to the gods with what we call a Viking fire. He made a wooden pallet from an old chair seat, piled it high with wood, set it afire, and sent it down the river. These kids, from 4 to 11 years, clapped and hollered and screamed, and then started yelling up the river at us. "What's your name?" "Do it again!" "How old are you?" The uncle asked if they could come meet us and we said we had plenty of blanket space for all, and they came laughing and tripping into our camp, a rag-bag bunch of smudged faces and dirty knees, worn out shoes, uncombed hair. One boy, about seven, had no hair at all and a moon face with swollen eyelids. I've been in the medical field for over 20 years and I knew this child wouldn't see another summer. His uncle told me quietly this was why he'd brought them out, to have a little fun together, because the next week his sister would be taking him and his siblings back to Tennessee to be near the bulk of the family as his time came due. It came to light that they only had a few cans of beans and Spaghetti-Ohs, so, being the overachiever that I am, I broke open our chest full of goodies and we fed them sausages and tomato wedges, artichoke hearts and three-bean salad. Not exactly foods to make a child salivate, but these children dug in, no complaints, and I had the pleasure of whispering to John, "See? I told you it wasn't too much."

After the last paper plate was thrown into the fire, the kids wanted stories. And more stories. And more stories. Until finally I turned the wheel and said it was time for them to tell us stories. My husband, who is estranged from his daughter, melted when the girls sat in a semi-circle in front of him and asked him everything about himself except what his social security number was. Me, I was aching from having a son overseas in the military, and my heart couldn't help but swell and fill and nearly burst in the company of this motley assortment of kids.

The youngest, a spindly limbed little girl of about 4, was skittish of the fire and jumped and ducked every time the flames cracked and tiny bits of red ash climbed into the air above us. I took her on my knees and told her not to be afraid, it was just the fire fairies coming out of the flames to get a good look at all the beautiful children.

We didn't come equipped to spend the night. John had to nearly force me to the truck. They followed us, standing in the dust, waving their arms, and I watched them until the night dropped a curtain between us. John patted my knee and said, "Don't feel sad. You gave them memories."

I sprung up early the next morning, woke John and said, "We're going back."

I boiled eggs, made tuna salad sandwiches, packed up the chips, bananas, and grapes, stopped by the store for cartons of juice boxes. They were just where we left them, sitting by a dead fire, quietly watching the water. We ate and swam and ran and played. John taught them how to jug fish with a line and hook and plastic water bottles for floats. We hiked upriver where the water tumbles over the rocks and we bumped down the tiny rapids on our bottoms.

I wanted to take them all home, even the uncle, and kiss their bruises and comb their hair and buy them flip-flops in every color of the rainbow. But they weren't mine to take and eventually we had to say good-bye. There were hugs and even a few tears and the uncle said he would be forever grateful. "On the contrary," I said, "I'm the grateful one."

We got home, took showers, ordered pizza, put in a movie. I muted Julia Roberts with a quick flick of the remote and said to John, "It wasn't us who gave them memories; it's them who gave the memories to us."