They always said you can be whatever you want, and I wanted to be a box of cereal.
The kind that can’t be picked from a tree. I never got to go fishing with my father.
Not that we still can’t, but then I’d get all wet and fall apart. And even if my father
was there and we were fishing on a sparkling lake, I don’t know if my father
could pick up my soggy body, if my father could collect all the shapes that fell out
of my body and dissolved in the freshwater, that the fish would begin to eat my shapes
and I’ll have failed at my life goal, because, because, it was to be a box of cereal. I
imagine my father would leave after sometime, I’m not sure if my father would cry
or not. I wonder if he would just go to the supermarket and pick out a new box of
cereal. One that would be made with real honey.