There was so much hope for the first. Model 0, the unclone. The seventh son. Who knows how many sisters it took to get there, but the seventh son arrived with much fanfare. Some sort of prophesy.

The seventh son didn’t live very long, but we must thank the shepherd for Dolly and the clones that followed, as the seventh son begat another, a clone, barely a fortnight after that seventh son lent support to the daisies. That clone, like that son, saw but three summers.

But there was the prophesy, and the legacy, and a clone of the clone was sprung, again failing to bear forth his destiny. And so on, third, fourth, fifth. One taken by a hawk as an infant, another caught in farm equipment, and another got into some antifreeze, sweet and blue.

The sixth clone of the seventh son, he had some promise, learned his letters, went to school one day, and was hit by a bus the next.

Looking down on the seventh clone, the third I’ve known, I don’t feel hope. I’m the eighth son, and I still don’t see what the big deal is.