The road began at one end of the world and settled somewhere on the other. His shoes were as small as the rocks in the path, so that he could only look at the clouds when he stopped, for fear that one of the rocks might cast him off balance and send him hurtling towards the Earth. But then, he wasn’t so tall yet so maybe it’d be alright.

As it turned out, a sidewalk would be the one to betray him. It happened before two traveling men, one selling wares on a blanket and the other strumming a guitar. The guitar hiccuped as the man’s hands clamped down.

“Oh no,” the man said.

But he rose, tears running down his cheeks, and walked on.

He followed the road through the dying town and drew stares, for he was the opposite. His cheeks were flushed red and his muscles were young. More than once, he broke into dancing, stamping his little shoes on the walk that had scraped his hands. People stared while he stole glances to the clouds. He grew out of his shoes before they wore out.

He walked on, taller now. It would hurt more to fall, but he knew his legs, and the worry calls drew quiet smiles from him as he stepped on.

There were so many things for him to find. The road wound about so many corners and dips and cliffs and rises. Sometimes it was hard and paved, while in others, it was soft, sandy. Some of his favorite times were when the path lit up and disappeared altogether, and he flexed his limbs in the pulling tide of the sea.

There came a night when he fell. It wasn’t a rock, or a sidewalk. It wasn’t the wind or a slip or an accidental hooty-hoo. This fall stopped him from the inside. He blinked in wonder at it. It felt like maybe this was it, the end of the road. And then he remembered those steps in his little shoes. He remembered the rough hewn edge of the walk that had cut him. He heard the beautiful song that guitar had sang.

He walked on, and there were always, always times in which he fell to dancing.

Of course people stared, but his eyes were on the clouds.

The hostess was especially trite.

“The children too?”

She pursed her lips as she said it.

“Yes.” I said as though we had an option. Should we just tie them outside?

As was true for so many civilized people, her brand of sham kindness made my skin crawl. And it was obvious that it had spread to the entire crew by the time we received our waters.

I missed the headlands. I even missed the stress that one of the little ones might escape us and tumble to the sea over this—over this room and these artists at their tables and the junkies that served them. Something pissed me off about rich artists. Rich artists who resembled critics more than explorers. They were nothing but opinions and snob noses tucked in expensive sweaters. ’Cunts’ is the word that came to mind, and it crawled to the tip of my tongue as I looked about the room.

There was an open door that led to an empty gala room with chairs strewn about, no tables set, and an open door at the far end of that to a garden.

The boys ran for it.

So we followed. 

And thus the battle began. 

It was not a fight between us and the boys. It wasn’t even a fight between the waiting staff and myself. It was the struggle in my head, my overpowering urge to present myself in good manners against the happiness of my children, because let’s be honest, they were hurting no one and nothing. They laughed as they ran. They lightly touched the leaves and marveled at the light around them. So their happiness won out, narrowly.

Right on, really. Right the fuck on. As it should be.

The bill came before I was halfway through my first beer.

I chugged it down and left before anyone else.

Philo seemed happy enough to leave with me. He clung with one arm to my shoulder as we marched past the other patrons. Once we were free, the world was light again. Winds blew in off the sea and the boys laughed as they pointed at trees, at windows, at signs, at squirrels, at fucking anything. At everything.

I thought, as happy as I’ve ever been:

Let the cunts have their room.

Let them have their sea cottages, and their fancy fucking  sweaters, and all the money in this world. Let them keep this whole stretch of coast. Let them post ‘no trespassing’ signs in the woods where I grew up. Let them keep it all.

 They’ll never have this day.

Besides—I’ve been jumping those fences since I was a wean. And I smiled to teach them one day, how we’d run low to the ground to get through the properties to the old trees, to peace.

If you come looking, look at night. Try to remember when it was cold and I held your cheek against my beard. Remember me laughing and you climbing down into the field. Remember your brother following you through the tall grasses. Remember how much he trusted you, even then.

If you come looking, hike down to the beach. There’ll be the glow of fires and creatures strange. They’re not of this world, but do not worry. You’ll find me amongst them, drinking and singing. There’ll be stories told and warm waves. There’ll be women with striking eyes. There’ll be loyal dogs that do not listen. 

There will be sherpas that climbed the mountains before any. There will be pilots who saved the world. There will be musicians who bled it, and poets that bled it, and people that never got the title but who wielded the magic with more fervor and more life than any of our time. Come and sit with us.

If you come looking and find the beach empty, do not worry, our ship simply hasn’t arrived yet. Climb back into the headlands and scour the stars. I’m blowing around up there on some celestial wind, smiling at the thought of you.

She never questioned it the way he did.

She smiled in warm kitchens and swayed her hips. Their life burned around a stove pot with seasoned water. Any little apartment in any city in the world would do. 

She stared at lists in supermarkets. She made them curry, in a red pot given to them at the beginning. It simmered on the stove. She spoke sweetly as she washed their dogs. She washed their babies too. 

He walked beside her as they spoke. It was the favorite times of his life, to walk through the world like that. 

“In a perfect world,” she said.

And the thought struck him that maybe it was. Had to be, for all the wants and pains, there was this evening. And, as if in answer, the sky came alive with streaks of red. She stopped to watch. He absent-mindedly slowed to a shuffle. 

The streaks burned pink and faded away.

It was minutes.

He looked at her face in the dying light. She was older than when they had met. She was still there, the same girl. She laughed the same after all. But looking at her, he saw someone else, and he marveled at that. 

She put the sky to shame.