Sense and Census
An old man, weather-beaten and sinewy, casually walked west toward the summer sunset. A young boy kicked up dust behind him, looking at the passing scenery with young eyes. He had never been this far from home before.
“Why do we have to go to the Capitol?” The boy asked.
“Tradition. Every seven years, someone from our family has made this trip and now that you’re old enough, it’s your turn. After all your mother is in no condition to travel right now.”
“I know. She’s preggerant.”
“Pregnant.” The old man corrected without judgment.
“Pregnant.” The boy repeated.
“You got it. Now where was I? Ah yes, I invited you, because seven years from now, you may have to make this trip alone and I wanted you to know the way.”
The boy digested the information and decided he didn’t like it.
“You’ll always be here to show me the way, right Grandpa?”
“Almost.” He said with a half-smile.
He sighed. “Then I have a lot to learn.”
Knowledge of the ages passed from one to the other, continuing on, the way it always had.