I read the sky. Like words across the page, the sky tells my story. I’ve learned to read the morning haze that lifts to a bright day. I’ve learned to read the scalloped clouds, the wisps of air, the big blue nothings. I’ve learned to scan for storm clouds that prey on ignorance and slam a heavy burden on my days. I’ve seen beyond massive snow bursts to find that daytime stars, though invisible, are still there.
When the sky uncoils silver in the last ray of light, when nighttime rolls its woolen blanket of dark, I read the stars and am assured, once again, they are there for me. The protectors of fate, the stewards of life. The stars, I know, are my story- memories long forgotten, memories unlived. I look to the stars for solace, not for what I might become, but for who I am. When the flash of reckoning strikes, I am reminded that the stars comprise a book of stories, and my wholeness spans the breadth of space and time and darkness and light. I breathe in, knowing every star is mine, and mine alone. I breathe in knowing I am the sky.