Letter from the Editor: I'm Sorry I Can't Be Him

It’s come to my attention that I’ll never be an antique bison. Try as I might, I am only a twenty-fifth of its size, far less stately than I once had hoped. 

My hair is not nearly as pervasive, nor as rugged and coarse. My horns are nonexistent. I speak in words and phrases, not raw and guttural groans. 

I will never have the prowess of this late Pleistocene herbivore. We are not of the same order. I am a lowly primate. He is an Artiodactyla. Until I am preserved in a pit of tar, I will not have his staying power. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be him. I’ve come to terms with it — I’m trying to, at least. Can you?