by Nathaniel Taylor
He
was eight years old, and like most kids his age, he was always right,
and he was always on an adventure. There was a ravine outside of our
house—a ravine to me, but to him it was a different world. It was a
culmination of everything under the sun that was known and yet
unknown. It was the small part of the world that Columbus, Vespucci,
and Magellan had all missed on their long voyages. And every morning
we’d sit at the table together—just my wife, my son, and
I—enjoying the warm breath of steam kissing my lips as I took a
short sip of coffee. He would sit there, periodically nibbling at the
now cold and stale toast I had prepared for him, looking out the
windows at that ravine.
