NAP 1.3

You kiss her on the top of the head as you hike up your backpack. You tell the kid, “You’re the man now. Don’t blow it.”

The kid wags his tail and says, “Can I send him off? Can I? Can I?” Your mother looks away, goes to her room and closes the door.

You strap yourself in, close your eyes and say a prayer, as your brother cuts the cord. You’re catapulted into the air: over your house, over the wall. You didn’t expect the beauty.

You think, this is the last thing your dad saw.

You pull the detonator and make a sound like fireworks—like the fourth of July as you fall towards them.

You hope it helps.