Reading Time: 1 Minutes
In my teens, we moved to the sky. My mother
turned to clouds; my father, to rotor blades.
I turned to the moon.
The blades razed the clouds day and night. The
clouds affixed lightning to the fray.
How blue! So cheesy! Oo! Oo!
Then the blades slowed and crashed.
It rained for days.
Smartphones became the rage among clouds.
The moon, too. Those were the days.