FICTION
A Bedtime Story for Those Who Dare to Dream
Sisi and the ladder.
“I want to see them,” Sisi said to her mother. “Now.”
She was seven, a young Venezuelan long before the time of Bolivar, and, as children often are, she was unafraid to dream.
“Well, Sisi,” said her mother as she ushered the young lass outside, “The stars are right here for you to see. See?”
Mother was right. The stars bespectacled the night sky, flickering and shining bright as a young girl’s eye.
“No, mother,” Sisi insisted, “I don’t just want to see the stars — I want to see them up there. I want to go to the stars. I want to touch them.”
“Well,” said Sisi’s mother, curious, confused, and not about to dash her daughter’s dream, “you’ll need a way up. The only way to climb that high is with a ladder.”
“Well, mother,” Sisi asked, “Where may I find a ladder?”
“Sisi,” her mother said, “Ladders are everywhere, yet none will not reach such heights.”
“Well,” Sisi said, “Where may I find one that does?”
Her mother sighed a great sigh, and gave a sorrowful look. “Sisi, there isn’t a ladder in this great big world high enough for you to touch the stars.”
