On the day I got my draft notice, Johnny received an acceptance from Emory. He drove us into the country in his ’65 Impala for our last night together, off a dirt road, near Swenson’s Pond. The humid August evening with mosquitos the size of dragonflies couldn’t deter us. He lit a joint to clear the bugs and our brains. We slow-danced as he hummed a Dylan tune, the one about having God on our side. Johnny’s body was soothing like a Sunday morning.
We raced to the pond, tearing off our clothing along the way. We dove in, and the warm water smelled of death. Green muck covered our bodies. We crawled out, and under the moonlight Johnny promised to wait.
For him, medical school and a successful future lay ahead. For me, there was no way of knowing. Even if I survived, the damage might be insurmountable. A flash of white soared past us, and a barn owl landed on the branch of an oak tree. It screeched, and I took Johnny’s hand. This time we both sang that Dylan song as we held each other.
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