"You were born on a cold winter day"

Jack's mother whispered

The story of my history

My story

His story.

Stories had been written

and burned

and published

and rejected

and worshiped

But never had anyone heard

the full story of Jack.

"Long ago," she said

"my son," to her son

"I met a wonderful man

He was

tall

strong

growing

glowing."

This is my story!

His story

was being told

"He lived in the sky

and I thought he was a poet"

I guess she didn't know it

His story giggled.

"No, he was literal

He lived in the sky

among the clouds

and you have met him"

To her son

What?

His story was a

mistake

My father is from the sky

my father...

Could I ever meet him again?

"No"

"He's gone"

My father was the giant

that I've slain?