It may be that we are only waiting for the wind to lift us, like birds, or like the weightless clouds. I climb my grandfather’s face, feeling the rough crags of his skin, the lines carved on his forehead like mountain ridges. He is a mountain I want to scale, each step revealing the stories etched into his features. His voice is a steady echo, a distant call from a land long familiar, urging me upward. I reach his eye, a vast, clouded sky, and see the reflection of my own eager face. Every movement is deliberate, a slow ascent into the history of his life, his quiet strength, and resilience as I ascend, seeking connection and understanding.