I woke up, and the sky wasn’t blue
Not grey, not stormy, just... not.
It hung there like a half-remembered dream,
the kind that slips between your fingers
before you can tell anyone, it mattered.
I asked my mom,
“Did the sky change?”
She looked at me over her tea and smiled,
“No, sweetheart. You changed.”
But I still looked up.
At recess. At lunch. On the bus ride home.
I waited for the sky to remember itself.
In history class, the teacher talked about wars.
In maths, the numbers wouldn’t add up
to anything that felt important.
In English, we read about a man
who turned into a bug
and no one cared enough to ask why.
After school, I walked by the old oak,
the one by the field that no one mows any more.
It stood like a lonely guard,
its leaves rustling with things I didn’t understand yet.
I sat under it,
took off my shoes,
and felt the earth.
Warm. Steady. Real.
A bird landed nearby.
It tilted its head at me like it knew.
It didn’t mind the sky.
And suddenly,
I didn’t either.
Because maybe the sky isn’t supposed to be blue every day.
Maybe it forgets, like we all do.
And maybe, just maybe,
that’s how we remember
what matters.
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