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Wings | Sep 01 2003

At the wedding picnic, Ishmael tied the broken pieces of a giant Styrofoam airplane to his body (side wings to his arms, tail wing to his back) in an effort to fly. Later, in the car, stuck in a traffic, we discuss Icarus. Ishmael, still wearing the wings, already knows the story and plans to avoid using wax.

I met Ishmael’s father twenty years ago, in Michigan, five years before Ishmael’s father met his mother, the woman to my left, at a time when Ishmael was negative twelve.

The longer you live, the less possible it becomes to explain anything.