The sound of heavy plastic, a zipper, and sobbing.

I lay on cold metal, grieving the sun on the rock and my first free climb. My fingers still dusted with chalk; the skin sandpapered by the rough edges of granite.

“Yes. That is my daughter.”

Mom will wash my hands.

Jody padumachitta Goch is a Canadian living in the German Black Forest. They write poetry and short fiction, chop wood, and train horses. Jody’s jeans and shirt pockets are full of stories. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting the wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher.