Clouds
The clouds drifted over head like the dregs at the bottom of a fish tank. The currents coursing through the skies bore them along, rivers of condensation and dust. I plodded along the long, lonely path from Plassmann to Francis. Once again, my eyes locked to the sky, my head lost in cloud and star, but my feet remain planted.
I kicked snow into puddles. I splashed and shook the water from my boots. Strangers walked by talking on their cell phones or stepping to the rhythm of their earbuds. I recognized a few. And waved.
As I neared the building, I glanced at the broad field in front of Francis and the Townhouses, next to the sparse parking lot and the tenuous traffic of State Street, filled with isolated trees. My head flooded with memory. I looked back at my feet, at the puddles.
Do memories pool? I wondered.
All the memories layered on the grass, along this path, the good-bye kisses and hugs, the shaky hellos, the starlit conversations away from the streetlights, the telephone calls, and wandering strolls of someone lost and dazed by their own existence--all of them pooling at my feet, splashing with my footfalls. Perhaps they evaporate with the water, sailing to the sky, condensing into clouds, and raining or snowing into pools and piles along sidewalks. We trudge along, stepping through memory.
Perhaps that's where painful rainy days come from: the wash of all those regrets trailing the windows and falling into mud, pattering along rooftops like a faded guitar chord, dampening hair into tangled strands. The weight of those memories darken the sun and obscure the stars. Slate-gray, dull, seething and heavy, they drift into our lives. They stay. Then leave when the wind changes.
I see those painful conversations in the clouds--the broken dreams and shattered hearts--and long to see the joy of a sunset or a lover glancing out the window to verify the warmth beside him is not a dream. I see only gray. Cold gray. Perhaps the residue of those memories pool because because I don't let them go. They return, locked in a cycle. They fill the sky, condense on my frustrations. They tint the world in haze, gathered by my longings.
For all my blessings, I can't get past the gray cast of memories. When the sun shines, I smile: at last the clouds have cleared. When clouds pass, I can breath.
I walk inside, lie down, and look at that hemlock branch cast against that backdrop. I breath. All that I know is I'm breathing. That's enough, enough for now. A patch of blue flashes. Enough for now.
I kicked snow into puddles. I splashed and shook the water from my boots. Strangers walked by talking on their cell phones or stepping to the rhythm of their earbuds. I recognized a few. And waved.
As I neared the building, I glanced at the broad field in front of Francis and the Townhouses, next to the sparse parking lot and the tenuous traffic of State Street, filled with isolated trees. My head flooded with memory. I looked back at my feet, at the puddles.
Do memories pool? I wondered.
All the memories layered on the grass, along this path, the good-bye kisses and hugs, the shaky hellos, the starlit conversations away from the streetlights, the telephone calls, and wandering strolls of someone lost and dazed by their own existence--all of them pooling at my feet, splashing with my footfalls. Perhaps they evaporate with the water, sailing to the sky, condensing into clouds, and raining or snowing into pools and piles along sidewalks. We trudge along, stepping through memory.
Perhaps that's where painful rainy days come from: the wash of all those regrets trailing the windows and falling into mud, pattering along rooftops like a faded guitar chord, dampening hair into tangled strands. The weight of those memories darken the sun and obscure the stars. Slate-gray, dull, seething and heavy, they drift into our lives. They stay. Then leave when the wind changes.
I see those painful conversations in the clouds--the broken dreams and shattered hearts--and long to see the joy of a sunset or a lover glancing out the window to verify the warmth beside him is not a dream. I see only gray. Cold gray. Perhaps the residue of those memories pool because because I don't let them go. They return, locked in a cycle. They fill the sky, condense on my frustrations. They tint the world in haze, gathered by my longings.
For all my blessings, I can't get past the gray cast of memories. When the sun shines, I smile: at last the clouds have cleared. When clouds pass, I can breath.
I walk inside, lie down, and look at that hemlock branch cast against that backdrop. I breath. All that I know is I'm breathing. That's enough, enough for now. A patch of blue flashes. Enough for now.