As I write this I'm looking out the front windows of my house,matching the clouds roll by. The sky is bright blue and peaceful, but up high are fluffy white bundles of clouds, marching across the upper atmosphere as though heading to an appointment with a storm someplace over the Atlantic.
Meteorologists love to talk about clouds and what different types mean, from the cumulus to the cirrus and everything in between, they are studied and dissected to discover their meaning and message. I remember when we were kids my mother once lay our on the grass with us, looking up at the clouds and talking about what they reminded her of. Each of us would describe the animal or other object we could find, helping the others to see them too. It was one of the few times I remember Mom totally letting her hair down and playing with us like that. I'm sure she did it more often than not, but that's the one I remember.
To this day I find myself looking for things in the clouds. Perhaps I just want to lie in the grass again without worrying about deer ticks or mosquito-borne illnesses. Or maybe I really long for my mother to come to me in her thirty-year-old youth, more carefree and happy than she was later in life. If we could lie in the grass again, looking for shapes in the clouds, perhaps we could find that innocent, happy place again. For both of us.