christopher

I would like to think that the times we shared and the words we spoke floated out the open window in the moments when we were tired and sweaty, drifting along the buildings where we slept and, like residue of evaporated water, became clear thoughts in the stratosphere.

Perhaps they attached themselves to oxygen isotopes and fixed the ozone layer. Maybe a young woman sleeping in an airplane at 35,000 feet felt a bit of warmth when the plane came upon it, swooped it into the cabin where it found her bent awkward in a seat next to a man in a cowboy hat and woman who knits.

Maybe those words touched other words spoken by other people in the middle of the night, rising higher and higher in the cold air. Archimedes, Bacon, and Magnus were right when they spoke of hot air rising and carrying things up and out on its own heat.

By the time our words had grown cold, there was nothing below. Our experiences grew dim, our words became hollow, and they started to drift downward, passing other words floating higher than previously thought. Our words became her words and my words and they lost some necessary covalent bond. The memories will grow smaller as they plummet, falling faster than I want them to.

At this point, I'd like it to rain big, thick drops that seem originate from miles above us. The sky is overcast with the promise of cool air by the weekend with the possibility of precipitation.