First the hand grew moss. Then a forest of animals. Snakes lurking through grass. An elephant with blue skin. A dragon making small fires in a lantern. Two kids running through the tall weeds. Quick feet. Soft toes. Dry mud. Beneath them the dirt gives in to each one of their steps. One kid reaches a hand down to his feet, picks pebbles into his palm. Tosses one then another, to his brother, who opens his mouth and catches them.

My father told me that story. Though I’ve forgotten which character he is. Either he’s moss, the pebbles, the knees of the boys, or the small fires wavering with the wind. I’m always his son, no matter what form he takes. And whether the hand is turned up at the sky, or if the palm is buried in the dirt.