When I was thirteen years old,
I spent ten weeks away from home at camp

I only started to get homesick
About the seventh or eighth week

I wrote letters home, I received letters back
But I missed my friends, my family, my things

That last one may sound strange
But the things we surround ourselves with
Are an important part of a home

I missed my bed
I missed my books
I missed my comic books

I mean, I was fourteen

One day, we had a field trip from camp
And we stopped at a store
I bought the comics pictured above and below
And I read them
Over and over

They reminded me of being home
They reminded me that I was still a boy

And like so many things that mean the world to us
I seriously doubt they ever meant much to anyone else