“A clown.”







“A monster truck.”
“A sunflower.”
“A boxing glove.”
“A dog.”
“A pirate ship.”
“A submarine.”
“A pear.”
“A lemon tree.”
You turn your eyes from the clouds, to look at me. Your hair falls across your forehead; I reach over to brush it away.
“I see you.” You say, looking at me in that way. That way no one ever has before you and the way no one will after you.
The clouds are perfect today; big and fluffy. They are creating all sorts of crazy pictures in our minds. The grass is soft and the air smells clean. I would never swear to have seen a more beautiful day. And of course it was just me and you: as always.
Your hand isn’t as boney as it once was under mine. And my toes wiggling against yours aren’t caked with the mud of childhood summer fun, but are instead painted with the lime green nail-polish that you gave me.
I smile at you in that way. The way I never smiled at anyone else before and the way I’ll never smile at anyone again.
“And I see you.” I say, because I do. I always have and I always will.
A last summer together, a last look up at the charade-playing clouds, a last chase across our favorite wheat covered field, a last hug to go with a last goodnight; and of course, I don’t think either of us could live without that inevitable last kiss.
We both look back up at the clouds. What else is there for us to do? We still had this afternoon, even if it was the last. So it will just be me, you, and the artistic clouds.
“A guitar.”
“A dinosaur.”
“A panda bear.”
“Now, I see the clown.”