One Last Time
or anyone observing from outside our canoe, the scene looks straight out of an old cartoon, albeit one of impending doom. My feet are hooked in under the lip of the canoe, my body is stretched out and my arms, fully extended, reach toward a nearby sapling, my fingers wrapped around the thin trunk as I hold on with all my might. Our canoe has swung completely around, so I’m now at the back, the flooded river pulling the canoe downriver, my dad now in the front, is trying to grab another tree, so as to pull us
