I remember saying, rather exclaiming, how blue the sky was that day. It was one of those skies with light, almost clear edges and a deep, worn denim center. If you could close off the fringe of your peripheral vision, you could fall up and in. Not a single cloud could catch you as you fell into the absolute blue, the heavens, the end and the beginning.
Just as I felt a tug around my core from above, I was snatched back by something mocking. A laugh. “The sky is always blue,” she said. I laughed and stammered and agreed and pushed it down deep. This was the beginning and the end, the beginning of the end. I felt that familiar tug away. This was when I knew, for certain, that we were different.