We awake wanting — no, needing — to climb. We ascend stairs, ladders and trees, every step, rung and branch a victory. When we get to the top, we hurry down so we can climb again. Those of us living in one-stories, yards flat and barren, dig holes so we can jump in and clamber out again and again ‘til we’re caked with dirt. We envy those who work in skyscrapers or live near towers. We listen to Stairway to Heaven on repeat, the song’s chords looping in our bones. Watching others ascend, we gauge their progress against our own and climb until our legs go numb, our lungs on fire, burnout our badge of honor. Our children, following our lead, shimmy up light poles, scamper onto parked cars, spend hours playing King of the Hill. At tuck-in time, we read about the goose that laid the golden eggs so our little ones might dream about scaling beanstalks. The elderly among us tip their wheelchairs, grip bannisters and pull. When we fall, we feel for broken bones, knit our determination then resume our climb. Sometimes we ask ourselves what drives us. But we’re too busy climbing to answer.
David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been selection for Best Microfictions 2025, has been nominated for four Pushcart prizes and has appeared in various journals including FlashFlood Journal. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com.
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