i'm on a dirt road with fields alongside. an
abandoned house behind me. my father appears.
i didn't think i'd make it out of that one, i say
my shoes kicking gravel. the weight of a backpack
materializes on my shoulders and i know it's
filled with things that will help me carry on.
dad tossles my hair as if I were five, says: "it's time
i show you how to break clouds." the dirt road evaporates.
we're on a grassy hill overlooking water with waves that
shush me calm. i use my pack for a pillow, look up at sky.
"there was this one time," dad says, "i knew i needed to
clear my head so i hitch-hiked all the way from vancouver
to toronto just to get here and break clouds and when i
was done i felt better and so i hiked all the way back."
laying there, i notice cottonball clouds accumulate as
though someone were putting them back in a jar, watched
as they split into shapes - a tree, ship, hammer, nail.
"i want you to know," he says, "you can build anything"
"you can take it apart, change your mind, these things
won't stick - clouds are just clouds - the sky, though
it changes, remains above your head - and all problems
pass like that cloud - remember: your will is the sky."
i'm back on the road. my dad is gone and the night
comes at me like a storm. but i can break it down.
- adp, 16 July 2009