cirrus clouds

The one thing that kept me from feeling like a prisoner was watching the sky. It leaves messages for those who know how to read them. So whenever I felt trapped, I'd find a roof and sit and see what the sky had to say. 

Little Seva and I didn't agree on much, but she liked watching the skies with me. Those times were . . . sacred, almost. We'd sit together in perfect silence, no arguing, no petty maneuvering, just reading the clouds. Even after, when we returned to our lives and went back to disagreeing on everything, we'd never say a word about it to anyone. This was ours in a way that was deeper and more powerful than words could express.

That anchor was enough. Even once we'd gone our separate ways, she to her dream of building an enlightened world, me to case the grounds of the city that was my prison, she would still find me sometimes, sitting on a high place, reading the sky.

It had been a clear, hot summer when a curtain of cirrus clouds spread across the sky, and she joined me at the garden that overlooked the old city. Without a word she sat next to me, just like old friends, and we watched the setting sun paint those clouds in astonishing shades of pink and red. After a while, she said, "There's a storm coming, isn't there?"

"Yeah."

"A bad one?"

"Looks like."

The brilliant shades of sunset faded, leaving only the deepening blues of twilight fading into night, and finally she stood. "They'll be wondering where I am. I'd best be getting back to the palace."

"Good luck, little Seva. I'll be seeing you."

I'd half expected her to ask me for help--even the oldest traditions have to give way sometime--but she didn't. Even faced with a storm we both knew would be a disaster, she respected that.