Book of Ian

Prologue

Everything feels crisp that day. The crunch of gravel under Ian’s new boots. The snaps on his jacket as he bundles himself against a gusty breeze, the scrape of his father’s rake on the grass gathering crisp leaves into a pile of red and gold and brown. The afternoon sun shining through bare branches draws sharp lines on the lawn.

He is six. He is pure joy rolling in raked leaves. They stick to his jacket, to his knit hat.

His father is laughing and shooing him away with light taps of the rake tines on Ian’s pant legs. He pretends to rake Ian up. too. Tells Ian to “wait, wait, wait” and let the pile grow.

And it does. The mound rises, higher and higher, until Ian nearly bursts with desire to jump into that great soft pillow of crinkling color.

He is on the swing now. He feels his father’s strong gloved hands on his back, pushing him higher. Ian’s legs pump multiplying his father’s power. The wind is in his mouth as he soars.

The gloves, his legs, the blue of the sky, the black of the tree branches and then—the release.

He flies like a rocket, like a kite surging on an updraft, like a stone thrown by a mighty hand. He soars, then he floats, arms outstretched, his boots suddenly light on his feet. And then he is falling into that magnificent pile of leaves.

He won’t see the panic on his father’s face. He won’t remember landing.

For Ian, there will be no landing. He will, for the rest of his days, be suspended in that moment of wonder, in the joy of the jump.

For Ian, there will only be up.