I stand in a long dark shadow, giant novelty scissors clutched in my hand. The fake gold plating is cold in my grip. I’m pretending to be happy.

“What do you see?” my father asked.

“A . . . hole?” I was used to these sorts of visual lessons and knew he would get to the point eventually.

For his part, my father barely seemed to register the sarcasm. “It’s a beginning,” he declared proudly. “Someday people will stand here beneath the gaze of a dream made real.”

“Okay,”

“Never stop dreaming, son,” he said clapping my shoulder. I was staring at a hole. He was staring at the sky.

“It’s so tall!” I declared a year later.

My father wore a sly smile. “It’s only half way up.”

“Dad, you made this?”

“Well, I designed it,” he said. It was a modest statement, but I could tell he was proud. “Remember what I said, son. Never stop dreaming.”

I cut the ribbon as cameras flashed. Polite applause. Handshakes.

It’s all wrong.

Above me stands a monolith of concrete, metal, and glass: the dream my father made real, but never got to see. And no dream of mine can ever bring him back.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox