They lived in a hamlet above the sea, the sun always rising behind a vibrating mist. Each day they watched the waterworks burn off before noon – Mommy, Daddy, and Daughter – sipping ginger infused hot cocoa with clotted cream. Witnesses to molecules vaporizing by the billions, the family soaked up the miracle like a grateful little sponge.

The bear growled loudly walking up the mountain.

You see, their condo in the sky was actually their own private treehouse in the cloud forest of Costa Rica. Blue butterflies as big as their heads fluttered by in teams of twenty. Hot springs that weren’t too hot, and just the right amount of smelly, bubbled patiently down below. Fantasy or reality, they liked it just fine.

The bear, walking up the mountain, growled loudly.

They went about their afternoons mostly forgetting about their mornings, no matter how lovely the morning. Except when memory served the competition. Comparing opacities between consecutive morning mists, the first one to correctly point out the percent change was declared the winner. The prize was always the same; a statistically significant scintilla of satisfaction.

Walking loudly, the bear growled up the mountain.

One lucky day, Daughter discovered they had tickets to see her favorite rock n’ fly band. She rarely thought about what might be planned on any given tomorrow, but on calendar days when the pre-scheduled activity was of particular interest, her excitement bubbled over.

“Mommy and Daddy!” she cried, “I can’t control myself, for today we journey into the Great Big City to see the biggest band in the world!”

Walking up the bear, loudly the mountain growled.

            “Oh, is the Trampoline Frogs concert today?” asked Daddy. “I wouldn’t have known unless I had checked my calendar, which I certainly didn’t do yesterday, nor was I planning on doing so today.”

            “Yes, my darlings” said Mommy. “Today is the day. For I too just checked my calendar for the first and only time, and Daughter is correct.”

            “”Well,” said Daddy, “In that case…button my blue jeans and gas up the giddy-up.”

The mountain, walking up the bear, growled loudly.

In preparation for their trip, Mommy printed out the tickets, Daddy packed a lunch, and Daughter laced up her lime green sneakers.

“Now, I’m officially ready,” Daughter thought.

“Now the T-Frogs will certainly notice me. And maybe they’ll pull me up on the tramp for some Quintuplet Vertigos during their chart topping hit, Moon Legs Forever to Find You, Girl.”

The walking mountain growled loudly up the bear.

Backing out of their driveway that day, they were a family imbued with the optimism of a new adventure. It curled up inside their tummies like a playful kitten ready to pounce. But despite the anticipation for all the fun things to come, as far as they were concerned the best part of the day was already happening right now.

In their freshly minted sedan; with their playlist cranked up and their eyes locked open from way too much cocoa, they merged onto the Great Big Freeway. Accelerating past the other vehicles with astonishing power, Daddy said under his breath,

            “Get some, Mother Trucker. I forgot that performance could be so exhilarating.”

            “What was that, Dear?” said Mommy.

            “I said that all I ever wanted was to get from point A to B, but now that I’m doing it with some class I’ll enjoy it for what it’s worth and forget about it when the wheels stop spinning.”

            “Of course you will, Dear,” said Mommy.

The chair dried quickly after falling on the fountain.

            An hour into their drive, Mommy directed Daddy to take the first of many interchanges. Judging his options, Daddy thought he could speed up past an 18 wheeler to get off at the last second – a harrowing maneuver of grit and skill – but the big truck slowed down just enough for a dweeby four banger to foil his big plans. Raising his voice twenty decibels, Daddy stuck his head out the window and yelled for the first time in years.

            “Hey Jocko! Instead of ruining my life, why don’t you take a whiz on a weed wacker!?”

            Composing himself back in the cabin for the sake of his family, Daddy addressed his bad behavior without any hesitation.

            “Boy, did I just mess the pooch there on several fronts. Sorry about that, girls. It doesn’t matter though, and now that it’s over it certainly doesn’t bother me anymore.”

After falling on the fountain, the chair dried quickly.

            And he meant it, too. It didn’t bother him anymore. And he was right. It didn’t matter. Mommy had barely noticed, for she was busy singing along to the sounds of Balls and Bush, Lenny and Stan respectively, her favorite witchy-haired duo. Acknowledging Daddy’s navigational and behavioral errors, she barely blinked and said,

            “Don’t worry, Baby. We forgive you and have your back, always. I’ll find us another way.”

            Daughter had been rooting Daddy on during these heroics, but as soon as she saw the massive concrete channel running parallel to their new stretch of freeway, she teleported into a mouse who happened to be surfing with his pals down on the trickle. When the little dudes wiped out after the gnarly current took them by surprise, they got right back up, as all little mice should do. But they were laughing so hard they kept losing their balance, falling over after each attempt. It was quite a sight for Daughter to behold, but taking a break from the action to make sure Daddy was ok, she chimed in after Mommy.

            “Daddy, I know you didn’t go the way you wanted, but this way is amazing too, because now we’re going a different way, and unexpected things happen when you go a different way. Remember when you told me that?”

On quickly falling after the chair, the fountain dried.

            By now Mommy was doing most of the navigating in her easy breezy way. She didn’t mind refocusing her attention on something more demanding. Being well suited towards proper orientation, it was simply something she did.

            But despite Mommy’s help, Daddy kept going the wrong way. It was mostly his fault for improvising, yes, but also occasionally the mistake of Mommy too. They even let Daughter lead the way for a while, handing over the glowing beacon with some Jolly Snackers to keep her calories up.

            “I can do it, Mommy and Daddy,” she said in her bravest little voice, “I’ll find the way.”

            Through their collective effort, they backtracked, circled around, and finally found themselves going the right way again on the Great Big Freeway. Once they knew they weren’t lost anymore, Daughter snapped out of one of her visions to address something more important.

            “Oh my gosh, you guys! Remember how we need to get our family photo taken?”

Quickly the chair dried after falling on the fountain.

            They had been talking about it ever since Daughter had seen a Big Family Portrait – ten by ten feet – mounted above the fireplace at her friend’s house. In the other family portrait the other Daddy was dressed in a fine Hungarian suit, the other Mommy in a silk Spanish leotard, and the other Daughter in a boutique potato skin sewn together with hemp cord and string cheese.

            Ever since, Daughter had been keen on getting a Big Family Portrait of her own. It wasn’t that she cared about showing off her wealth like her friend, it was more about showing off how she was an integral fraction of the whole; one third of three people equaling one family unit. So she went home and asked her parents,

            “Mommy and Daddy, can we get a Great Big Pamily Fortrait of our own?”

            “Well…ok, Chunkmaster,” her parents had said in unison, “but first we’ll have to think about who or what we are.”

After quickly falling on the chair, the fountain dried.

            So now Daddy said, “Yes, my darling, of course we remember, but have you given yourself some thought?”

            “Yes, I have,” said Daughter. “In my place we will have to find a little girl named Pam, because I exist inside a Pam. I don’t exactly know where this Pam lives yet, I think maybe in Asia, but for now any other Pam will do.”

            Daughter was correct. She did exist inside this little girl named Pam, and in fact this heretofore undiscovered Pam was quite lucky to have Daughter inside her. For Daughter was always watching through the eyes of this Pam. She saw what Pam saw and listened to what Pam listened to, but more importantly, she saw Pam’s thoughts. Most of the time Pam was ok, but sometimes her thoughts were overrun by bad memories and future fears. That’s when Daughter would take complete control of Pam’s faculties. Be it by radiating warmth to the edges of Pam’s face, or sending musical tickles down her femurs, Daughter always got the job done. Except for maybe that one time she made cauliflower grow inside Pam’s brain. She had decided that was too much of a good thing.

The fountain dried after falling quickly on the chair.

            On the worst day of Pam’s life, Daughter decided to do something extra special to make it better. Pam’s parents had been missing for days. Nobody knew where they were. Daughter felt the heaving ache inside Pam’s heart and the tightening panic in Pam’s throat. She wanted to tell Pam that even though life was unfair, even though her parents were gone forever, life was still good. So she made Pam’s book slide off the page and give birth around the room – animals, words, and shapes – multiplying into better versions of themselves until floor to ceiling was filled with nouns of every persuasion, all dancing wildly for Pam’s diversion.

             After such episodes, Daughter always looked forward to going back home inside herself. Even though she liked helping Pam, she liked being at home with her silly parents even more. They were, after all, the only people preparing her for a life of self-soothing freedom and joy. And don’t forget the unconditional love that wasn’t just conditional love in disguise. That was pretty great, too.

            After Daughter was finished revealing who she was, she said,

            “What about you, Daddy, what are you supposed to be?”

            “You know, Daughter, I’ve given it some real thought. A man has to live by at least two principles. Number one, he needs a code. And number two, he better have integrity. So in the place of my corporeal flesh, I shall hand the photographer a pencil, because I am a pencil. It just is, and I always abide by what is, and I always tell the truth about what makes me tick.”

The proudly fucked pear fouled against the western wind.

            Daddy was correct. He was, in fact, a pencil. He made his mark on the world with a firm press. Skillfully looping his way to destinations both familiar, the end of the line, and novel, underneath a dirty old stove, he carved out his place with ingenious force. He became dull from overuse, a frequent condition only remedied by someone willing enough to track down the ever-dwindling supply of size specific sharpeners.

            He would break sometimes, too. A dramatic action brought on by the frequent dislocation of his misadventures – “Splinters Proximity” – he had called it. But just like a severed pencil, he would cut his losses by saying ‘”Bye-Bye-Bitch” to his broken piece in an everlasting embrace of constant renewal. Considering himself a factor of theoretical multiplicity, he sheltered inside his infinite morphologies as a means of salvation. Unfortunately, and just like a pencil, he got lost every day; neglected like an all too common object. Sometimes he would go for months without anybody using him, only to be found between couch cushions by the comely maid on cleaning day, or perhaps by a sitting suitor, the latter likely contracting lead poisoning. Too stupid or unkind to remember he was always there, recipients of his not altogether unpleasant tattoos of permanent revenge always got what they deserved.

The fouled western pear fucked proudly against the wind.

            “What about you, my love?” said Daddy.

            “I’m a blanket,” said Mommy, surprised by her sudden revelation that made total sense.  

“Yes, I do the things a warm, perfectly weighted, beautiful blanket does.”

“But dry, Honey, don’t forget dry as a bone,” said Daddy.

            Mommy was right to realize what she was. For she was neatly tucked in around the edges of her world, armoring her kin to go forth every day, rejuvenated, to learn a little more than they had the day before. Enveloping the flesh of all creatures big and small, male or female, her soft pattern was practical in that it was symmetrical, traditional in that it was familiar, beautiful in that it was arresting, and stylish in that it was unique. To everybody underneath her she was everything and everywhere at once. Always expected to be on time and in her place. Made. Always expected to assume her position. Fresh. Needing to perform twice as well for the maximum amount of people she could cover at one time. When she became too overbearing though, too hot for everybody’s own good; she was kicked off to the nether corners of the bedroom, crumpled on the floor in a useless waste.

Fucked against the western wind, the pear proudly fouled.

            With that it was decided they had made their case in favor of the Great Big Pamily Fortrait, but as they entered the heart of the Great Big City, their joy receded into acceptance, for their navigation challenge was starting all over again.

            If the seven-layered street signs and desperate U-turns weren’t hard enough, legally parked cars appeared at random to block right hand lanes on one-way streets. To make matters almost impossible, there were creatures called City Drivers, uncompromising ragers on the question of how driving should be done. This, along with the sheer congestion of the massive place left the un-initiated, such as little families, in situations where they kept missing left hand turns because it always appeared another option was just ahead, but in fact, never was. Not once.

            In the thick of it, Mommy and Daddy were discussing how best to reach their destination as Daughter looked on from the back seat, prisms from crystal skyscrapers dancing on her cheeks. Mommy wanted to find parking close to the venue, strategically convenient both in cost and proximity. Daddy wanted their spot to be facing the appropriate cardinal direction to save themselves the extra amount of middling walking distance should they accept the less good option.

            These were the type of things Mommy and Daddy enjoyed figuring through. The challenge of using their thoughts on minutiae so practical yet seemingly so insignificant placated their hungry minds in search of non-stop meals. Instead of thinking about themselves – what they wanted, what they had done, how they felt, what they had planned, how close to perfect they were – hurtful things – craving things – things that made them less reasonable – what better way than granular hyperbole to divert six million years of cerebral evolution in the right direction.

The wind, against the proudly fouled western pear, fucked.

            They had family and friends who used their thoughts in an endless pulse of recrimination towards themselves and others, their pain only mitigated through bodily denial or attainment of one fleeting ambition after another. They were nice people, perhaps, but their bodies were outfitted in a series of conveyor belts that never kept their eyes, ears, and organs in one place for more than a few seconds – constantly swapping and grinding places – the fuel of ego driven thought the slave master at the helm – freedom lies just around the next bend – lies about freedom bends the neck around.

            So Mommy and Daddy gave thanks to their teachers who taught them how to stay in one place, such as by saving a few feet of walking distance by parking in the ideal cardinal direction cat-a-corner to the nearest stairwell leading to the closest destination-adjacent sidewalk below.  

            But parking close enough to the venue while also letting people go in front of you meant you would miss all the available spots, because the people you helped out of kindness would end up taking the next available spot without repaying the favor. Each time Mommy and Daddy located a spot – public garages, private lots, lucky curbs – before they could pull in someone they had just recently helped pulled in first.

            On twenty occasions they were about to pull into an open spot when out of nowhere a Quxliated Qesla pulled in just ahead of them. Daddy sold his righteous indignation to Daughter each time, trying to make her laugh uncontrollably with his histrionics of non-acceptance.

            “Can you believe that, girls!? For the love of infinity, that’s the fourteenth time in a row now. How completely unfair and quite possibly outrageous!”

            “Daddy, stop,” giggled Daughter, “I know you really don’t care.”

Against the fouled western wind, the pear fucked proudly.

            The clock time kept getting closer to when the Trampoline Frogs were supposed to jump onstage. Daughter voiced her concern.

            “Daddy, even though we can’t find a spot, I would still like to see the T-Frogs. Can you drop me and Mommy off in front of the venue?”  

            “Well, I could,” said Daddy, “but we only have enough money to buy gas one more time. And if I keep driving around looking for a spot while you’re at the concert, I’m thinking there’s a decent chance I won’t find one, we would be stranded forever in the Great Big City. I guess I don’t mind being stranded. Well, I would miss you of course, but I would prefer to be with you and not be stranded in such a place. Of course, even if that happened it would be ok, just like everything else. I do realize that in some ways it would be beneficial for your growing independence if I dropped you off and shut up about the whole thing. But now you have all the facts, so what’ll it be?”

            “I accept staying with you guys and not physically attending the concert,” said Daughter.

            “Besides, today has been so much fun. I’ve never witnessed anything like it in all my life. I’ve been at the concert the whole time anyway, you probably knew that. So let’s go home.”

            “I think that’s a great idea,” said Mommy.

            “Me too,” said Daddy.

            “Me three,” said Daughter.

            On their way home Daddy made every scheduled interchange and exit without Mommy’s help. The traffic flowed in a harmony of equidistance, the reflecting lane dividers neon and true. After pulling into their driveway back home, their first and only spot all day, they went inside and snuggled in front of the fire place. Not thinking about their day at all, nor the gathering mist above the sea, they all three dreamt about different things in different ways.

Fucked, the western wind fouled proudly against the pear.