So they read about it in a book, the way it begins most times around here.
They ask me to take them to the country hardware store more than a few times.
They come out with smiles and supplies and free lollipops and I come home full of the dreams of these days.
There is duct tape and epoxy, funnels and tubing. Multiple attempts and tweaking.
Then a parachute made with plastic, rivets and rope. Folded into the nose of the skyward pointed.
Then an air compressor from the shed, water in recycled bottles, a launch pad. More reading. Revising.
Then Opa comes and farm boys prepare for lift off out by the wheat fields and the barn and the pigs.
There is waiting.
And is that the water bubbling, churning? Building through each of the stages of the rocket?
And we hardly breathe.
And that wisp of parachute unfolding high and full of wind and boys and July — all that pressure made into perfect wonder.
All these wild, happy days making the effort worth it.
And we only keep looking up.
Then a boy runs to catch what comes down, drifting down to us like a gift there in the barnyard, us with clapping hands.
Us water wet with this spray of exploding grace.
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