Streams
By Paul Vermette
Putting my right foot in first, I slowly let myself sink into the brisk water. The stream tickled my legs and played with my toes. Jagged rocks indented my feet but did not tear them as I had tough, thick calluses covering them.
I was wearing pleated khaki shorts, an unbuttoned white collared shirt, and a fishing hat I bought from a flea market years ago.
My plan for the day was to wade down the stream and take some photographs of anything that caught my eyes or that I found “photo-esque”. I had been doing this once or twice a month for the past few months or so, and every time I found something new to photograph.
It was dry out. Pretty damn hot too, late eighties. The trees siding the stream made some shade that protected my neck and arms from the sun.
When I was younger and the stream was a river, my friends and I would run along the bank of the river until we got so tired we had to stop. We never stopped at the same place and it gave of a sense of adventure.
The river back then could be a scary place if you didn't know it very well or if it had just rained.
One June, we'd had a three week drought and the river was down to almost what it looks like today. Walking through the stream just made us hotter, so we did something else to cool off.
Then, a three day straight storm came in and flooded the river. On the fourth day, the temperature skyrocketed again, so the four of us friends decided to go swimming.
We ran along the edge of the river, higher along the embankment than usual. Finally we all stopped, stooped over and panting.
Like always, we had never been to this place and couldn't recognize any landmarks. We were young and we didn't factor in the speed of the river too.
We paired off. One group would jump in first, the next ten seconds after. I paired with Dick, my best friend out of my three friends. He was my size, liked everything I did, and was a naturally leader. For our thirteenth birthdays, which were three days apart, we took all the money we had saved and bought two matching golden pinky rings. They were plain bands with a slim groove cut along the middle of the band.
We spent almost every day together.
So we stood on the edge of the bank, readying ourselves to jump in.
We looked back to our two other friends, said “Ten seconds!”, and plunged into the cool summer water.
Immediately, something felt wrong. My legs didn't reach the bottom and started pulled downstream, making my body parallel with the Earth. I opened my eyes and saw nothing. I grabbed around and caught a hold of a rock and thought I'd be able to climb up from there, but the rock had been a small one and I simply tore it free and kept floating away.
All I could hear was the rush of water, smalls rocks panging off other ricks, and large branches snapping just by the force of the water alone.
Finally, I got my head above water and tried to look around. Before my eyes could even clear out the water I got pulled back down and choked on water being forced through my mouth and nose. While under the water, instead of swallowing the water I vomited and the air was knocked out of me.
I began frantically clawing at everything and felt my right index and middle finger break. There was nothing to hold on to, I couldn't get above water, I was sure I would die.
I accepted my fate and closed my eyes and relaxed.
Then two hands grabbed my right arm and pulled with all the force the person could manage.
I blacked out.
When I woke up, I found myself on a large, flat rock with Dick crouched over me. I could hear my two other friends running through the underbrush to make sure we were okay, or to save us.
I started crying. Dick did too. We cried for a few minutes, hugging each other, until Dick stuck out his hand and said, “I lost the ring”. His pinky was fractured and the bone was stuck out towards his palm.
“That's alright, Dick. We're alive, that's all that matters. You saved my life. I owe my life to you.”
The four of us never went near that river again.
That was many, many years ago. Over the years, the river simply shrank smaller and smaller until it became the stream it is today. Our friendships also shrank, and I only saw the three of them in person once since we graduated high school.
I had moved back to the area a couple years back and never had the courage to come near it until the spring of last year. I didn't dare put my foot into the water until one hot day, as I was taking pictures, I saw something picture worthy across the shallow stream. Slowly, I waded through the 5 inch stream until I got to the other side and took the picture. It was then I decided to take pictures from inside the stream.
So that's what I was doing, taking pictures of almost everything. I can't really say I'm a photographer or anything, I just like taking pictures whether they come out good or bad.
My favorite pictures were pictures of the crystal clear water. You could see every stone and pebbles underneath, and sometimes I was quick enough to snap shots of small fish.
I had walked nearly a mile downstream when my back began to hurt. It was never the same after the war. Hobbling, I reached a rock big enough for me to sit on that wouldn't hurt my rear.
I sat down and let the camera dangle from my neck. I scooped up some water and lathered my hands together to get them moist. Being old and all, my hands were always dry and chapped and the water relieved that for a time.
I looked down at my toes. I could see the hair on my feet swaying with the water and I danced my toes on the rocks like a child.
Then I saw something flash.
I lowered my head to the water and saw a small speck of gold. My back stiffened and my arms began to shiver. It felt as if my heart were going to simply stop beating.
I crouched into the water and slowly stuck my hand downwards. It seemed like two minutes before I felt the metal against my fingertips. I palmed it there, afraid of dropping it and afraid of what I might pull back up with me.
I took my palm out of the hand and sat for a few minutes, breathing deeply through my nose, letting the smells of late spring relax my mind.
When I was ready I opened my palm. In the center of the palm was a golden ring.
At this point, it could be any golden ring. So I took a few more minutes to relax and prepare myself for disappointment or excitement.
I picked it up with my thumb and index finger and examined it. Years of being thrown against rocks had put dings in the band, but the groove around the middle was still there.
It was the ring Dick had lost.
I began to cry. Then sob uncontrollably. I needed to return it to him. I still wore mine to this day.
I ran as fast as my body would let me, taking many breaks in between, all the way to my truck. I hastily threw my camera bag in the passenger seat and started the car. I turned around in the dirt lot I had parked in and gunned my truck onto the street, taking a right towards Memorial Avenue.
I didn't need to drive far. I passed some fast food places that never existed when I had originally lived here, and other small stores that I had never been interested in entering. Jennings Photo and More, one of the few stores I've set foot in, was about a mile from where I needed to be.
The mile took as long as a mile should, and I turned right into the place I needed to be, iron gates swung wide to let me through.
I parked my truck and walked towards where I knew to go. With every step I got a little faster, a little more exciting, a little more depressed.
I finally made it to the spot. It was a large oak tree that had three thick, red lines painted around the trunk. There were three modest grave markers that sat underneath.
I walked up to the one on the right. I knelt down and ran my fingers across the inscription. It was Dick's tombstone. On top on the tombstone I had put money towards, there was a small ring about the size of a man's pinky cut into the center. I fumbled through my pocket and took out his ring.
I tried to set the ring into the stone, but the person has cut it to the wrong dimensions. I took out my multi-tool and worked the concrete a little and kept trying until I finally snapped the ring into it's space.
I stepped back and looked at the three tombstones. All three of them died on June 15th, 1968.
My three friends died in a car crash that night. I had shipped to basic the day after I graduated.
I returned home to see them at the wake for first time since graduation.
I had bought the plot next to Dick's.
I wouldn't return to their graves alive ever again.
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Originally Posted by Ace
