sky

It was the sort of promisey thing you want to see on a Friday, when you’re already happy but it’s an eight-hours-away sort of happy, and you’re looking forward.

Only I was sitting in my car, looking skyward and not forward and I noticed all the sky-roads crossing and crossing again. Straight-laced clouds tied one end of the horizon to the other, zigzagging like lost roads going where they please and having a jolly good time of it, thank you.

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Something about that great wide blue and its constantly recurring and fading street lines enchants me. I drive distracted by divine stitches pulling the arched heavens together with smoke. Hundreds and hundreds of people went online and researched prices and sighed or sobbed or squealed and clicked “purchase” and then waited in line and proved to a tired uniformed officer that they were who they said they were;

*beep*

“Next.”

And then pilots did the things with the knobs and lifted that crazy tricycle busload of people and luggage and sighs and dreams into the air and now all I can see of those myriads of stories is a fading streak of puffed out white tail in the morning.

Somehow all those flights happened last night, all zoomed up over my city leaving hot, shimmery air behind them, all leapt into the jagged horizon while tell-tale heat waves bloomed into footprint clouds. Then somehow the sun climbed the sky like magic and hid the stars in gold and those clouds came out of night and like thick waves of happiness, lapped up on top of each other.

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Do I envy them, these free cloud-ropes swaying gently in the wild day-blue above the mountains? They have space. Soul-space like what I need at the end of a day. Eye-space like prairies, the home-kind that I need after too many mountains and too long of lonely. Heart-space wide enough to hurt and heal without breaking, to fall apart and pick up slowly, without losing all the pieces in the shuffle.

Do I though? Would I be up there, if I could? Would I live in the open jewel of heaven wrapped around this dizzy globe without touching it?

Because sometimes I have those sky-things anyway.

Sometimes I find those sky-things down here, in strange, tiny, beautiful spaces. Sometimes that soul-space fits soft and savory into my one room, and sometimes eye-space comes when I feel the sunshine through my eyelids on a Saturday morning. Sometimes that healing heart-space fits into the warm gap between my palm and his, when my small fingers are knitted with his large ones; and maybe those gentle hugs are the ones that keep the pieces of me together when I fall apart.

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[sometimes I wonder how I think of these things]

[and then sometimes I want to twist those jet tail clouds around my fingers and play cat’s cradle in the sky]

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could be

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There is a jet dragging a sun-dyed crimson tail across the sky. That gold fire is behind the mountains but the jet is up, up and the sun reaches up when it can’t reach across anymore, and I want to be doing that.

I want to be in there, that jet

but I also want to be here, on the ground

I am tired

I could be leaving bright banners between the horizons

and I still want to be here, resting.