In the middle of the afternoon, he raises his head and looks around, noting changes to the east northeast, then closes the notebook and lets it rest on his knee. His mind wanders, trying to recall what he did in the morning. He remembers climbing down for tea, and reaching up to save the white kitten from the kitchen shelf. She did not want to come down. He understands. He spends his days on the roof of his house, under his yellow umbrella, making notes. It is his job to keep the history of clouds which drift or form about the airspace of his town. All impressions must be recorded, from nine to half past five.
He has the gift for the interpretive recording of ethereal things, and he felt the calling as a boy. He fell in love with clouds. He would lie on his back in the shade of a tree and look out where they form suddenly over the river, and present themselves. A dog with a too-long tail, a pitcher of lemonade tilted toward the sun, a sword with a twisted, spiral hilt. He could not keep his eyes off the sky. It would catch his attention at the worst possible times. He crashed his bike into trees, mailboxes, light poles, because of watching clouds appear and form, dissolve and float away.
He writes the time of day in military hours, compass heading to the strict degree, and elevation relative to parallel. Ninety degrees is straight up to God. All scientific; that’s what they want at City Hall. Then all the meanings of the sky as it presents itself, so that at 14:22; 352 degrees NNW; 38, a soft gray dishtowel lays over the oaks and laurels on the hills that crease Mule Canyon wash, folding where the hills drain to the river in a heavy rain. He watches closer as it lays out flat and smoothes against the hills, drifts to amorphous vapor, disappears.
His grandmother had a set of towels like that. She would lay one over her lap, and a yellow bowl, and sit snapping green peas while she watched the children play. There was a green tricycle in the yard and he and his brother took turns; one pedaling, the other on the back, hands on his brother’s shoulders, around and around the dwarf lime tree, under the clothesline, past the lattice of jasmine. Sometimes their grandmother would sing. Such a cloud, he writes, means comfort, ease, and family.
It is amazing how many clouds look like dogs, with their muzzles, ears and tails so prominent. They appear, running, over the hills, and leap over the river. They bark to him – Come on, let’s play! – as he sits on the roof and records their happy passing in his book. They are his favorite clouds, always meaning joy.
Of course, most clouds don’t look like things at all. Perhaps the sky is full of clouds, and he searches them like a fortuneteller reads tea leaves. He sees feelings, thoughts, and states of estrangement and atonement with God. This is because, while we are interpreting clouds, the sky reflects the world below. The sky knows our secrets, our sins and fears, and puts them on display for all the world. If it weren’t anonymous, we’d be in trouble. We’d be in the thick and thin and light and dark of it, each of us, by name.
Today it is late September, and the sky is in growing confusion. The equinoctial wind has brought agitation to town. Yesterday, he saw a huge charcoal gray and cotton pillar of angry jealousy rise up for hours in the north-northeast. And at times like that, he wants to climb down and call someone. Maybe the radio station. Let everyone know that no one can possess another person’s soul, or even hold their heart as property. The clouds have taught him that and many things, and people need to know. He sees we have to let go of direction, speed, and any manner of control. All we can do is keep floating mostly parallel, in the way that all things must keep moving, the way the current of winds keeps us moving, birth to death to whatever follows that. And maybe we can hope to brush against each other lightly now and then. But no matter what we want or hope, the sky decides.
So he wishes he could send out a warning. Just float. Trust the air. But that is not part of his job. In fact, it’s forbidden. Once a month, he turns in his book for a new one, and his finished notes are filed down at City Hall. In the basement, where the clouds can never see what people think of them.
Today the sky is a shallow platter of old and lightly curdled milk. There is little of shape or form to see. But there are streaks of a war in the distance, and clots of a father’s worry; his son is indolent and wasting time. He sees a woman whose mother is dying, mottled pale gray with sad futility. There are countless fears about money spotting the haze.
In the afternoon, a stronger breeze makes the yellow umbrella flap as he eats his first fall apple, wishing the lowering sun could be warmer on his knees. Clouds that were together drift apart, make new connections. Many break up altogether, fade away. There is nothing he can do but watch. He tosses the apple core down on the lawn, sees the dog trot out and sniff it, then return. He looks up to see that trouble is coming; hard air with thunder soon enough.
© 2007 by Kyle Kimberlin
All rights reserved
Metaphor 