Clouds

Elena,

The three of us are driving west on the Dolphin Expressway to a party. It’s your first school friend’s birthday. I don’t know why I needed to be that specific.

Your Dad drives past a Chuck E. Cheese, and after I say I’ve never been to one, we go down a rabbit hole of food thoughts and jokes, which reminds me of Alyssa’s chicken thighs post. I tell your Dad about it and how I commented that I’d try her “ask the husband” strategy.

She asked her husband for a topic, and he suggested chicken thighs.

That’s very specific.

If you were to suggest a topic, what do you think I should write about?

Depends. Do you want something frivolous, deep, random…?

I think I need some lightness.

Ok. I know. What is the strangest thing you had to get used to after moving to the US?

It doesn’t take me long to respond, and I tell him that I think I’ll write about looking at clouds. Now that I think about it, I believe I wrote something similar two years ago but never published. I guess I’ll find that forgotten draft after I finish this slice. Do ideas experience Deja Vu, too?

Your dad seems intrigued. Looking up and noticing the clouds is sort of a strange adjustment for me, and I rush to explain that where I’ve lived before, I never had the freedom to look up without worry. In Maadi, you must always watch your step, especially since no one seems to care about pedestrians, and the idea of sidewalks is nonexistent. And in Venezuela, you’re always looking sideways, cautious about dangers lurking in broad daylight—no time to look up and appreciate the clouds. Eyes always looking ahead.

Now, the clouds and I have weekly dates. I even bring you in when we drive together. It’s a strange and random moment of gratitude the sky and I share, but I find it refreshing and significant. It almost feels like ideas visit me when I look up just as often as they do when I’m washing my hair. Let’s pause more often, baby girl. I believe that when we do, we open the door to unexpected gifts.