and I can’t tell if he wants me to find it or not. But I do. And I can’t unsee it. But I keep secrets. There is nothing more holy than amending a story, creating new myths. A software update. Adapt or die. Subversion is evolution. I want to go to him. I want to tell him that in seventh-grade art class, I hid a penis in each painting I painted that year. I don’t know who saw them. I hope no one. I hope everyone. I want to tell him if everything is holy, then nothing is. I want to tell him the reverse is true, too. We were only ever a suggestion. We were planned obsolescence and all we have is now. I want to tell him that this year I’ve been on empty, and it seems every metaphorical gas station is on the wrong side of the road recently. And we’re driving and forgetting we’re driving and find ourselves somehow in our driveway anyway—already home. And there’s just enough in the tank to try again tomorrow. But I don’t know how long this will last. I hide everything harmful from him for better or worse. But still, I want to go to him. I want to say we’re all just action figures with articulated limbs at the mercy of a too-rough boy. I know that G.I. Joe, that Jesus, that all our stories are as real or full of shit as we want them to be. Whatever keeps the engine running on fumes. Whatever punches up the stables and mangers. I want to tell him all of this because he doesn’t know it yet and will have to learn it soon. But even when he learns, I know it’s not over. He’ll have the blessing and the curse of watching his child make his own meaning. And he’ll have to decide what to do then. How to act. He’ll have to pretend he has a choice. I know for sure that knowing is half the battle. And if there are wise men anywhere, they know the more they learn, the less they understand.