Sky.

30 Jan

There was a field, bright with blue flowers. I’d read there during the summer when I could sneak away. I’d lay there with my stomach flat on the soft grass. Sometimes I’d see an ant crawling through the blades, and everything else would fade away. His black, rounded body would come into sharp focus. Then I’d see all the other ants, too, crawling through the grass, and I’d wonder how many worlds I missed simply for not looking. The sun would shine warm on my back, and I’d flip over to see the clouds, and to the enveloping blueness there seemed no end. There were many birds back then, and suddenly, without warning they’d gather and move through the sky in one, great shadow, sending fleeting black patches across the unending blue. Could I drink the sky, I wondered? It would taste good, on a day like today. Sometimes I’d pick myself up off the grass and stuff sky into my pocket before leaving. It’s not difficult to do this. Reach up and take some—just circle your fingers around and pull down. It felt cool in those days and nice on my warm skin. But the thing about sky is that it doesn’t last long. You’ll eventually have to let go. It stayed in my pocket that day for one hour before it became drenched in water and tugged until I had to give it up. I climbed up an oak tree, to the top. I bunched the sky between my fingers, lifted it high above my head and opened. It floated like a feather upwards until I could no longer distinguish it. The frothy white around the edges  mingled with the blue of the great sky until it disappeared, melting wholly into a beautiful unknown.

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