To Paint the Sky

 To Paint the Sky

    They told us we could do anything when we grew up, and so I decided I wanted to paint the sky. It wasn't enough to simply be an artist. I wanted to create the grandest tapestry of all time. But how could I, being unable to fly? Our classmates laughed at me, our teacher smiled condescendingly, but you didn't. With serious eyes, you held my hand and told me we would be painters together. For days, we two dreamers would climb as high up in the trees as we could muster, trying to touch the clouds. But the sky was much too big to hold, and our hands were much too small. Finally, with tears in my eyes, I let my dream go, yet you still remained by my side. I thought you would scorn me for giving up. But you didn't. 

    As the years passed, our paths further converged. The same hues from art class staining our palms, our two pulses throbbed out a symphony that never quelled. We grew intertwined--two beings of one soul, of one mind.

    One October afternoon, you left without saying goodbye. You didn't need to, because we had plans to go to the movies later that night. I thought you would come back to me, but you didn't. 

    It was weeks later, after your funeral, that I realized what had happened. It wasn't the car accident that autumn that took you away. No, that afternoon, as the last leaves fell from skeletal branches, you left me to touch the sky of our dreams. 

    Now, every dusk and dawn, I sit outside with my chin cocked upward. Admire the colors with which you paint the sky. Most days, I smile at your masterpieces--but some days, I cry. Because I thought we would grow up together. And we didn't.