Nefelibata (n.)
“Cloud Walker”; one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination
I decided to meet her in the park today. She said she wanted to see me and I could have used a pleasant evening stroll. We walked for a while, then I sat in my usual spot, and she sat with me. It felt weird having her here and not you. The sky was splashed with vibrant colors but she didn’t seem to notice. I remember how you use to stop suddenly to adore the golden skies. I remember you telling me that no two evenings, no sunsets, no clouds can ever be the same.
“Just look at the sky,” you said day after day, with such sincere excitement that I couldn’t help but feel I was missing something exceptional. I was, as it turns out.
“Look at the way the clouds blend into each other as if they patting each other for traveling this far with the wind,” you said to me. “And look doesn’t that cloud looks like an old lady is trying to push a stroller?”. Your eyes were bigger than ever and you used to giggle when you saw I was standing behind you. “What do you think?” you always asked. I wish I would’ve participated when I had the chance instead of saying ” All I see is a blob.”
It became an unusual habit. A day without you finding figures in clouds was muted. You had this mysterious habit of picking a favorite cloud every day and I looked at your cloud, not really sure what I thought, having never thought much of a singular cloud before. And then I used to make some dumb joke. You see I was always for the big picture while you were all about the details. Petty little details.
Those days were perfect. Your hand in my hand, your laugh in my ears, and endless evening colors. I wish I knew how lucky I was. I don’t remember exactly when the clouds rolled in and snatched you from me. Only that they did. ‘Snatched’ is the wrong word, I suppose, a wimpy word. I let them take you, didn’t I? But now you are gone. And here I am sitting on a bench, our bench, reminiscing. But now, I notice the details, the small things that make up the big things. It helps me be close to you, or at least it feels that way.
It’s quiet here, on the bench. It’s getting dark and she asks me what am I thinking about. I look up and say,” Isn’t it crazy how two clouds are never the same. Look there is an old lady who is trying to push a stroller. what do you think?”
“Nahhhh, all I see is a blob,” she says
