Plank
The raft had opinions about flies. Tomás was nine, or possibly a different number entirely.
Somewhere, a rope disagreed with gravity and won on a technicality. The lawn had not been consulted. Three clouds filed separate complaints about the color of his jacket, which was his older brother’s jacket, actually, and too big at the sleeves.
He sat.
The raft floated on the grass the way a thought floats on a louder thought — partially, and with some embarrassment.
His left shoe arrived two minutes before the rest of him. The heron on the non-existent river made a sound like a forgotten Tuesday and then became briefly alphabetical.
“Plank,” said Tomás, for no reason.
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This was, the raft agreed, precisely the right thing.
A sandwich contributed nothing to the situation. The wind held a certificate. Four inches of river appeared without explanation and then apologized and left. Tomás looked at the sky, which was busy. The sky did not look back, but it was the kind of sky that exists only on days off school, enormous and badly organized.
The raft hummed.
Tomás hummed a different hum.
Neither hum was musical. Both hums were, in their own jurisdictions, correct.
The grass accepted everything without comment. It was the backyard grass, slightly dead near the fence where the sun didn’t reach. It had done this before, with other boys, other rafts, other afternoons that didn’t quite belong to the days they arrived in.
His sandwich was gone. He hadn’t eaten it.
His mother would ask about the sandwich later. He would have no answer, which she would find, as always, completely believable.
