Sky

My attempt to banish the smoke-induced existential dread has backfired

June 8th, 2023

I'm not a mother. 
But if I was
I would tell my daughter of a time before the sky was perpetually gray. 
Of a time when looking up above was an exercise in hope. 
Of a time when sunrises and sunsets existed—It will be impossible to explain to her what they are, but I will try my best. 
Of a time when the color blue was immediately inferred when someone said “sky.”
Of a time when my fourth-grade crush tried to explain trichromatic theory to me: “We will never know if my blue is the same as your blue,” he said. 
Of a time before full body coverings and oxygen suits. 
Of a time when running in the park was good for your health. 
Of a time when Mommy and Daddy could kiss outdoors. 
Of a time when Mommy and Daddy used to meet up with other Mommys and Daddys in the park and walk around for hours and hours and hours—
philosophizing, laughing, sometimes even crying tears of joy.
And breathing. 
Breathing in the air of the day. The air of the present. 
She will probably look at me quizzically. 
“What is breathing?” She will ask. 
“Breathing is what we used to do.” I will say. It will be so difficult to explain to her, but I will try. 
I must.