青空

  There are times in all of our lives when we wish that we could glimpse the sky. Rain might be washing the pavement while you stare from the third floor window, myriad floors above and the cityscape blocking your view. Billows of cloud may pass like banks of fog from the Pacific as wings move gently up and down just outside the pressurized cabin's reinforced glass. An air conditioner's steady hum might hint at high noon and a deep sea of azure overhead.
  Sometimes we wish to look to the sky for other reasons too; wobbly Vs breaking formation as they head vaguely south, fireflies like willo'wisps dancing over a pond that might not be there save for the murky moon reflected within, bursts of color heralding crashes that shake glass and reverberate from concrete structure to structure.
  Someone I met a few weeks ago died a few days ago. I saw his partner last night and asked about him; I'd not been told he was gone. I wish I'd been able to glimpse the sky at that moment, instead reflected mirrored-ball light and pulsing musical undertones drowned out my statement of sympathy, my eyes searching for something more than a blackened bar ceiling and forgotten decoration stagings.
  I like to think that the sky might have been the deep blue only night brings, even though I know it was probably throwing down drops of rain. Travel well friend.