The white lines twirl together, floating, hovering.
Who gets this job? To paint the sky everyday. The giant dome that encases us. Always changing, always beautiful.
Perhaps Michelangelo. He could have earned it with that ceiling of his. But there were skies before Michelangelo. Hmm. Well whoever it is must enjoy it.
He must have so many paints. All the different shades needed for the sunrise, sunset, the night, storm, calm. Blues, and purples, and oranges, and yellows, and pinks and grays and blacks. White for the clouds and silver for the stars.
I wonder if it would ever be hard. To have to come up with new ideas all the time. For the masterpiece never to stick, but to change and fade, never stopping, never staying.
Why can’t anything be permanent? Nothing ever stays the same. No one ever stays. People change too easily. They’ll say or believe one thing, but after a time claim things are different now. That they are different now.
Maybe it’s not just one painter. Maybe there is a whole group, and they work together to make sure the sky is painted. That is a lovely thought. And they’d have to get along, they would just have to, to be able to create something so beautiful. I bet they don’t fight.
Or maybe they do. Thunder can be angry, and sometimes someone throws lighting. The rain can be cold, but the sky is always happier after the rain. It’s never broken.
It’s not like that here. The yells can be booming or shrill. Doors fly shut faster than a lighting bolt. Tears fall, and they never dry into a smile. I guess there are good days too, but lately they never seem to last.
I want it to be like the sky. Where there is always something better coming. Or at least something good. Where things don’t just get worse, and worse, and worse.
It didn’t used to be like this. Everyone used to be happy. Everyday was a blue sky. But over the past few months it has turned to gray. And everyday it grows darker and darker. Less sunshine. I can hardly even make out the stars anymore.
There is a loud crash inside the house. Glass shattering. Here comes the thunder. I cover my ears with my hands and focus on the horizon. The sun has slid beneath it now, and from the ground grow streaks of lilac and rose. They melt into a deeper blue, warm and calm.
I hesitate as I lower one of my hands. Quiet. I wipe my nose across my sleeve. The dew on the grass is indistinguishable from my own raindrops. One deep breath. It comes out shaky. I’d rather be painting the sky.