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Show unwritten would have severed the only connection I have to a day in my life where the world split open without my notice. Day three is, my dad writes with typical understatement, a difficult day. By late morning, Jerry can no longer stand upright. As long as he keeps walking, he can remain erect, but as soon as he stops moving, he falls into the river, the raft, the rocks on the shore. The Alatna is painfully dry. My dad and uncle continue to line the fifteen-foot Avon down the shallows and over the sand and gravel bars, heaving their belongings, wishing for more water. Rain falls. Granitic rock formations appear in the far distance, holding court above the U-shaped valley while nothing on the valley floor grows above a foot-tussocks, sedge, and the occasional willow, beaten low by a wind that hammers the landscape. Every now and then, an eagle flies overhead, a herd of caribou flee their approach, the rains desist for a minute, and the sky opens. Every now and then, my uncle asks where they are and where everyone else is. When this happens, my dad responds, Jerry, we are in the middle of Alaska going down the Alatna and there are only two of us. Only two. Only two days ago, all was right in the world. Two years ago, the signs of Parkinson's were less apparent. Two decades ago, they were in the prime of life building shuttles that could return to earth and writing treaties dictating how the world should-act in time of war. Two score ago, they were getting married, finishing school, taking road trips to Florida to see the alligators. Only two. More falling. One moment my dad looks up and Jerry is gone. Beaching the raft, he goes in search of his brother only to find him near the shoreline, soaking wet; gloves, 243 |