[ RF ] Gazing up at the clouds you watch them shift and change while reminiscing about the past .

On a hot day, not a cloud in sight, we saw a flash of lightning. 
 My sister and I ran from the backyard to the front door. 
 Laughing. 
 Not afraid. Surprised. 
 
 This was humid hot. American South hot. The `` I could n't have been a slave, this is ridiculous'' hot. 
 
 It was on those summer days, after being shooed outside because grandma could n't her the TV over `` that racket,'' that we'd spin in circles until we could no longer stand then fall, careful to avoid anthills, and feel the earth spin. 
 
 `` Just water vapor,'' my youngest cousin would say smartly when we assigned forms to the clouds. She'd identify the type of cloud and predict if rain would fall. 
 
 But I never saw reality. The rolling whites lined with majestic grey and somber blue stirred an ineffable feeling deep within me. 
 
 The feeling of reading the names on the spines of a bookshelf. Or when my father explained that every song ever was a combination of twelve tones then taught me their names. 
 
 It made me feel as though life was really big, or maybe deep, but connected. 
 
 Years later, on a languid day with a laughing girl in a lonesome field, we cuddled under the sky. 
 
 And I felt it again. 
 
 
 

