They were ready to show me the entire state and special places of their fading childhood adolescent memories. They settled on taking me to one of their favorite smoke spots. A place nicknamed Barnhole. There was no barn, but there was a shallow cave, a glitter of water between jagged hills. They rolled two quick ones and we were off. Back into the jeep and back onto the winding roads. The lights of small town America flickering past dirty windshield, we were still getting over what was fed to us when we were snakes in mother’s bed, tossing sand out open window. Riders on a storm not yet confronted, a masked man, a black circle above halos. Heaven like doldrums over summer peaking through tree tops onto dirt room, naked feet in creek, water cool. We were brothers of love and chaos, no anger, no white lighters allowed in a white Kia or red Jimmy. A band of uncertainty, comedians without an audience or microphone stand. We were high on high bridge howling out laughable nonsense, we lied, bragged, flexed conversations, please be impressed. Every cough bringing us closer to God, who smirked knowing it would come to an end, over, and you would be gone, body dismantled, swollen cheekbones, broken soul, a yellow hat falling to the ground. Learning to fly before you’re an angel will leave you dragged out and buried. You took summer with you the day you tried falling with style, bringing fist to the pavement, coffin into dirt, and guilt to the monster I would become. High bridge became a monument to death and I would sit feet dangling over river top, shoe laces dangling from the same spot your eyes rolled back and arms let go of. I sat there sore with the night sky wondering asking why why why every youthful summer and every good or bad life will end, but the bridge would only groan and say nothing more