By Nathan James
Puppo tilled the fields out back with his Sunday fedora on, the plow slicing through soil like a prow. While digging the root cellar, Nini’d found a mammoth bone and scudded it to some bigwig in the city. That’s how my grandparents plotted their course—no maps, no calipers—just using faith as their north star. They slept side-by-side every night on flypaper and woke each morning to add rungs to their masts. One Saturday, they leant those poles against the sky and climbed—the moon of Nini’s bloomers shining, but no matter.