The man with a suitcase.

I left and flew through clouds. Like macro shots of cotton whisps.
White with ragged ends; as if someone had carelessly torn an edge and forgotten to comb what remained. Some gray, their bellies full of rain and just a tickle away from a downpour. Some auburn, reflecting the sunlight almost as if they were blushing, turning pink with a slight turn of fate.

The hum of music seemed to fade while I made unnecessary yet, at that moment, decisions of utmost importance. As the song changed I realised that it took me the span of one Floyd song to reach the conclusion that the next book I read would be by Pamuk. My thoughts surprised me by shuffling back to you. The winter mornings we had spent together while knitting the gray sweater for your Grammy. I was trying to concentrate vehemently while you tore on the edges of the stray cotton ball. Kitten, I said.
I laughed a bellyful, while you showered me with kisses. I turned pink, and fate did a small salsa while it twirled around the fingers I had so lovingly outstretched. Just a few more days and this would be all I have to share. Had I known, would I have made that last memory grand or is mundane enough? Was it banal, or what we shared; was that what life really is?

As I sit among a hundred strangers, I know you are there around me, Anne, I know that your presence surrounds me in the clouds. I can feel you everyday, everywhere. Why else would you make me want to fly? Why else would I choose to be among the clouds? You’ve made a traveller out of me, Anne. Even in your conclusion, you left me with three dots… A continuum. In your departure, you’ve left me  exhilarated and a better man… and how can I thank you? I travel, Anne, and I am with the clouds.


– tangled?

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