Some Days

That’s how it is.

Some days there is nothing to do but lay in the grass and stare at the sky. Some days are like that. You rest there all sprawled out like you’re about to make a snow angel but there’s no snow, only tall, unflinching grass under you. As you position yourself just right, the grass scratches your skin, makes you itch, but it feels soft and you think you’re laying on pillows.

Some days, that’s how it is.

Some days, when you sprawl out on that fluffy grass-pillow, you feel like maybe you are in that bright blue sky. After all, the clouds above look like pillows, so this must be what it feels like to lay on a cloud. Some days you lay there and the cloud-pillows are puffy and thick and giant like God needs extra firm to lay his big head on. Some days you lay there and the cloud-pillows are thin and wispy like God has smeared white paint across his big sky-canvas.

Some days, that’s how it is.

Some days, if you lay real still in that tall green grass, the clouds will talk to you. There under that endless sky that leaps from one mountain ridge to the next, the white puffs will begin to murmur little messages. Some days you have to strain your ear real hard to hear. Some days you can feel the powdery heaven fluff take big deep breaths — so big that it moves the grass around you and it looks like all the…