I ascend. My sister rides on my shoulders, she points to a stone, says, Look, this one is open. Thank you, I say. No, thank-you, she says, I’d walk but my ankles are missing. At the first plateau, we meet my wife and daughter. I say, this isn’t my name, it was given to me. My mother sweeps the path. My father lifts a star in his palm. Your grandfather, he says. Yes, I say. Dawn etches the aluminum sky. Look, my daughter says, pointing at a snowflake, we are floating inside.
Clark Knowles 