I laughed, and my laughter seemed freakishly loud as it echoed across the deserted river.
The river was lousy with turtles. After the first bend in the river, we passed a shallow island made of millions of white pebbles.
A blue heron stood perched on an old bleached tire, and when she saw us she spread her wings and flew away, more pterodactyl than bird.
The island forced us into a narrow channel on the east side of the river,
and we floated underneath sycamore trees leaning out over the water in search of more sunlight.
Most of the trees were covered in leaves, some streaked with pink in the first hints of autumn.
But we passed under one dead tree, leafless but still standing, and I looked up through its branches,
which intersected to fracture the cloudless blue sky into all kinds of irregular polygons.
I still have my dad’s phone. I keep it and a charging cord hidden in Harold’s trunk next to the spare tire.
A ton of the pictures on his phone were of leafless branches dividing up the sky, like the view I had as we floated under that sycamore.
I always wondered what he saw in that, in the split-apart sky.
Anyway, it really was a beautiful day—golden sunshine bearing down on us with just enough heat.
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