I don't believe the sky has been so breathtaking my entire life. Call it global warming, tunnel vision, or all in my head, but it has been beautiful more than I've ever noticed since last October. I would have considered myself a sky person, too - not just sky, but mountain, quiet forest, large body of water, fog, sunset-over-a-cornfield kind of person. And what I mean by that is that there is something spiritual about those things, the way they make you feel. Powerful and so small all at the same time.
I recently found a journal with some of my notes from a family trip to Colorado. While full of embarrassing nonsense about some old fixation with a boy who does not matter, those notes also contain my first ever written attempt at expressing my appreciation for the spirit of nature, specifically a sunrise over the Rockies, and its effect on me. I wrote them ten years ago. This is my second attempt.
I might as well just say it. I think Matt might have something to do with the sky - the light, the clouds. I also think I might be losing it.
The day of his funeral was the first time I noticed. The pink and purple ropes fanned in every direction, glowing like something I was supposed to hold onto. Something I couldn't reach or capture on film.
The highlights...
I'm facing the water on lake Michigan on a day that has been nothing but clouds. I'm missing him like mad. I need him and his hug. At the moment welled-up tears become too much for my eyes to hold in, the sky abruptly opens up and light reflects in one long line from a point on the horizon all the way to mere feet in front of me where waves are crashing. The clouds are moving fast and the sun is both setting and bursting. A few minutes of bright. Just as quickly, it is gone and does not appear again until the next day.
I'm about to go for a run with a friend. I am at the tallest point in a small public park and have already silently noticed every fluff against the bright afternoon sky. Hoping that he'll shield me from some of that sun and make this run more bearable. Before I put in my headphones, she points to the horizon and asks me if I've seen what my man made for me.
I'm driving with Daphne and she talks about the clouds. She tells me about how they are "getting bluer" and how much she loves them. Thinks "they are beeootiful and perfect for outside." Her frustration over the dump truck in front of us blocking her view is palpable.
Daphne asks my sister who painted the sky on our way home from an event that was important to Matt. He wanted to make it a tradition to bring Daphne there every year. Sister tells me I should write Daphne's poetic question down and that she doesn't know how to respond because she doesn't know what I'm telling her about things like that. I say nothing.
Today's morning sky was brilliant - another one of those days when the sun and sunrise were pretty, but more than that. They were contagious. In all four directions, the sky was pink and orange. And blue. And purple and white. Daphne asked me again who painted that sky.
She said, "The sky is so pink today. It is so beautiful. Who painted it, momma? Is it a man? I really love him. That pink is so beautiful for you."
I have not said these things to her. Maybe someone else did. I simply say I love the sky and I think it is beautiful. Those other blanks... She filled those in herself. For now, I'm opting out of anything more than agreeing with her.
