INTERRUPTED

I think back to when I am sitting on a wood plank in a canoe with Aaron and Nick in the middle of a lake, surrounded by trees, and it’s so green and so bright that I feel the sun turning me into the colors of these hills and this water and the leaves and the grass, slowly re-shaping me, slowly moving my arms gripping a paddle to the left and to the right, over Nick’s head, water dripping quickly just missing the joint he’s rolling. I look to the dock where the others are sitting, enjoying the sun and the company we all will miss when we no longer are here, or anywhere, together, the nagging sense of loss somewhere within all of our thoughtboxes, being pushed back, constantly pushed back into the recesses of our minds, concentrating on the emptying of ourselves and on the buzzing of our skin, purposefully thinking and knowing nothing.

Earlier, “I feel like we could be anywhere right now, we could… not be in Ohio, we could be anywhere today.”

Everything felt distinctly un-Ohio-like.

“Hawaii.”

“Any island, really.”

“Feels like Vera Cruz.”

“The Amazon.”

Nick lights the joint, passes it to me. A loud rumbling, coming closer, quickly increasing in intensity until the roaring drowns out the birds, then the insects, then the dip of my paddle into the dark water, then our voices cease and we look to the sky in amazement, two giant tankish greenish-grey military aircraft tearing through the air in a diagonal pattern at such a close level to us that the branches of the trees are thrown into disarray, our eardrums engorged, any thoughts that were being verbalized now forgotten. The planes glide directly over us slowly, but not effortlessly, the machines exerting a tremendous amount of energy, audibly noticeable, and as they pass a real and slightly unsettling feeling clouds over, and then I say “Jesus Christ.”

“What… was that.”

“Is there a… military base near here?”

“I see we’ve been transported to Afghanistan.”

“That was so… war-like.”

“Anything could happen here, we are cut off, no phone reception or anything, anything could be happening right now, we would be completely unaware.”

“I think everything will be okay.”

I pass the joint to Aaron, who sets his paddle down; he inhales deeply, once, twice, three times. We giggle a little and we drift slowly toward the decrepit bridge crossing a narrow passing of water. The dogs are following us, they are on the bridge, small pugs with pink tongues exposed in an always-funny manner, and Taylor is walking around the perimeter of the lake, shouting, “HEY… YOU SHOULD BRING THE DOGS BACK WITH YOU ON THE BOAT.”

“NO,” Aaron yells back, “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

We drift toward Taylor to pass her the half-smoked joint. She takes it between her fingers, gratefully bringing it to her mouth and then back with her to the dock to share.

Aaron hands his paddle to Nick and begins packing the bowl he’s just pulled from his backpack.

We continue floating.