Courtney Canfijn

Yousef

I’m in a forest at the edge of a quiet meadow which is intersected by a slow river. It’s quiet here, the only noises to be heard are those that my body makes, and the birds whose song can be heard, but cannot be seen, though I haven’t tried very hard to spot any. There’s a sense of peace and well being unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time. I emerge from the trees, and make my way to the river bank, where I find a perfect spot, on an outcropping of rock, where I can sit and put my feet in the water. As I reach down to take off my shoes I notice that I’m not wearing any. I shake off the feeling of unease at not having realized that I wasn’t wearing shoes. The water is cool around my feet and it is incredibly soothing, almost as if it could wash away any of the stressful thoughts or worries I normally carry, but I can’t seem to remember any of those familiar thoughts or worries. Just as I’m beginning to wonder why I can hear birds but can’t see any, What happened to my shoes, or why I can’t remember any of my typical stress laden concerns, I am wrenched from my state of bliss by a jarring and out of place sound. It sounds like something you’d hear in a movie when the hero’s spaceship is under attack. It’s that same blaring type of warning alarm. Alarm, that’s it. It’s an alarm.