Doomsday

He’s sixteen and he knows he will be sixteen only once; the summer, the entire year is stretching along like a single improbably long day. He’s sixteen and some things are heavy and others are unbearably light, and they are never going to be as off balance as they are now; the pavement rolls in the opposite direction under his feet. He’s trying to get home before the rain as lightnings, like warning shots, are going off in the distance, crashing into the black horizon. It almost feels like the last day ever; thank god it’s so very long.