Friday, April 12, 2013

The Sky

(rescued from G+, 13 Nov. 2012)


"I live close to the sky because when I die it will be shorter, you know."
-Guest on the Anthony Bourdain "No Reservations" final season show.

He took me up to his house near the sky.  The house was so high I kept having to duck my head out of fear.  The sky was not that close, but it seemed like it was.  I pictured a hard ceiling of white puffy clouds smacking my head and couldn't shake the feeling I was going to knock my head against them.

When someone invites you to their house, you cannot refuse.  When they tell you they need to tell you something special, you cannot refuse.  When they offer you hospitality that will ultimately deduct from the most precious resource they have, you cannot refuse.

I wish I had refused.

He took me up to his house near the sky and at the top I ducked my head and panted like a dog.  The air was thin and the clouds hung low.  They were actually quite high, but we were the ones who were dragging them down by climbing up the long narrow steps.  I breathed heavily and laboured while my host walked casually and calmly.

My host noticed me ducking my head and raising my arms and he smiled.  "People always do that when they come up here," he said.  "Always like that."  He pointed at me and ducked his head and raised his arms imitating me and laughed.

I laughed like I was amused and unconcerned, but I wanted to go back down.  My host would have none of it.  He took me to the roof, even higher.  Even closer to the sky.  There were a lot of boys, flying kites up here.

He turned serious then.  "I will tell you why you are here, but first we drink," he said.  He waved at one of the young boys who flew the kites on the roof and the boy trotted over.  The boy tugged at the string attached to a kite lost somewhere up there in the clouds.  The boy roped in the kite, the string piling up at his feet while the kite wriggled like a fish struggling to get away.

The kite was visible suddenly as it descended from the mists and abruptly dropped to the rooftop where we stood.  It wriggled on the ground before it flopped its last at the end of the boy's string.  My host eagerly ran over with a cup and collected the liquid clinging to the damp kite.

He raised the glass above his head and I had that reflex again, ducking my head and raising my hands to brush off the thing attacking my head that was not there.  My host saw me and laughed.

"Don't be afraid," he said.  "It's not your time.  Drink this."

I did not want to drink it and I did not want to be there.  But I recovered my composure and walked stiffly over to where he stood.  I tried not to stoop or hunch over, but the closeness of the sky and the clouds was unbearable.  I hunched over as little as I could.  I took the glass from my host and looked at the clear liquid.

"What is it?" I asked in a trembling voice that betrayed my emotions.  "I mean, what will it do?"

My host laughed but he was serious.  "You know already.  Drink it."

I tilted my head and looked up at the closeness of the sky and the clouds and then closed my eyes and drank.

I opened my eyes again and nothing had changed.  I was still there, afraid of the sky and surrounded by kids flying kites, fishing in the clouds for the clear liquid to drink.  My host took the glass from my trembling hand or it would have fallen.  He looked into my eyes very seriously.

"Well?  Do you see?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," I lied.

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