On that Saturday, we both wore gray. It was unplanned, as with all of it. If I were to go back, I would probably blame that clear day with its blue skies and fluffy clouds. I would wish for it to be raining, if only to help warn the version of me who was staring straight in your eyes, laughing at the instant she saw both of us wearing gray.
How soon the sky changed its mind. It turned gray, that one morning we were together. Cloudless, it blew heavy winds our way, almost pleading. Careful, now. Our only response was to hug each other closer, unaware of the damage that the skies are causing or the ones caused by our own internal storms.
During the early morning of your first goodbye, I can’t quite see the sky. My eyes, which had glinted every time your silhouette passed, were almost shut in pain. Tired, they were from accommodating endless streams to pass their way. I only had one glance of that sky at first light. I have always loved mornings before that.
Fast forward to the time a common friend brought me to the mountains, aware of the grief I would carry. As I was climbing the concrete pavement, the temperature dropping with each step, I can’t help but look back at the sky. One minute, it boasted a shade of sweet salmon, the next it was gone. Darkness engulfed us long before we ever got to the top. At night, the sky have always been clear or perhaps that’s just how I imagined it. The sky have always been filled with uncertainties.
For whatever happened, I can’t blame the sky nor its owner, if there be any. It was just a witness. Or was I the witness? Were we? Under the sky, I feel helpless. Under something so vast, I feel as though I’m nothing but a speck, save for that one sunset. In the summer of my life, I witnessed the most beautiful arrangement of the skies, one cradled by a backdrop of ancient mountains and a calm sea. If I were to remain only a speck, let it be under this beautiful sunset that I can witness for the rest of my life. I will wait to see it again, hopefully, before the storms arrive.