I used to live where the sky never ends.
Coming home meant a ten-minute drive, winding pavement past a llama farm and ten or fifteen houses, but none like mine. I turned right at a fat stone mailbox, purred over the cattle guard, and coasted down 800 meters to gravel, where I slowed and flicked off my headlights. I always cut the engine, but never the radio, at least not right away. When I did, though, I was ready for cold, and would edge out of the car holding everything – purse, coat, cell phone, scarf, Chap Stick – as if nothing could ever be consolidated.
I stood still so the gravel wouldn’t crunch, and I looked up.
Stars are a cliché, the lame romantic pastime of night beasts and dreamers. But the stars there, those were never-ending, because the sky was never-ending. It only paused to meet the soft line of horizon that pines on mountains make, and then went on and on.
So looking up was like growing as tall and strong as Atlas, something I used to wish for. Now, though, I know that holding the world wouldn’t be enough anyway, that maybe strength is less important.
(this post was inspired by a Red Writing Hood prompt provided by Write on Edge. For fabulous 200 word pieces, click the link.)