by J. Bradley
Neil looks at the stars through my empty Corona bottle. I point at a cluster: “Belt buckle.” I point at another cluster: “Shotgun shell.”
“What are they really?”
With the right things in him, my father became an astronomer. He classified whatever he pointed me to look at: dented soda can, a falling TV, a stabbed screen door where mosquitoes bled into the house.
I place my hand on Neil’s shoulder, grip until I can see him wince. “When you’re old enough, whatever you want them to be.”