i was the queen of sky pointing. of squinting into moving shapes. my dad was the king of direction. “ooh, that one’s baltimore.” “look! she’s arizona, for sure.” how could someone know the destination of every aircraft? a magician, no doubt. he knew it. with each passing sky rocket that blazed overhead i conjured a storyline.
i wondered if she was feeling like oregon today. if he had his heart in france. directions are a part of us, of me. scarred topographies of memory, etched into our makeup. if we could choose our moods by pointing in a direction, who are you now? sometimes i’m west coast, jackson hole. nantucket with wind in my sails. today, i feel like lake superior’s grandeur, energized by hazy light. calm underneath. ready to craft the next story of a moving sky shape