“You want to fly to the moon, Annie?”
“Yes,” she said.
“One day. Maybe one day, honey.”
He offered her hope, something big to imagine, the chance to dream. This was the country where dreams came true. One had to hold to dreams. From an early age, he had clung to hope. It felt as if yesterday. Shivering, he had cowered beneath the scratchy covers, tossed as an after thought to blanket the rusted army cot. His small hands clutched a wooden ship.
During those lonely nights he had gazed through a curtain less window and mapped the stars. Questions popped into his mind: Who am I? How did I get here? He dreamt of sailing away from the little house on Second Street. Each morning, he woke, convinced that there was a chance. One day, he thought One more day and then another. Buoyed on dreams and possibilities that melted like fairy floss from the carnival stall, he had carried on. Hope rooted him to the universe; he convinced himself that his destiny was to rule an empire.
If only someone had warned him that the odds weren’t in his favour and that boardrooms were full of men of privilege. It didn’t matter; he knew this as truth.