Clouds

It was Mom who taught me to look at the clouds. She would say there is always that one cloud in the sky that is just for you at that exact moment. Sort of like if God was a merry traveler in the middle of a festival creating animal balloons and he hands a special one to you. Whether it was your favorite one or not, you still felt loved and important.

Mom said I was born on a swan cloud. That’s why she nicknamed me ‘Swany’; a name that I had to begrudgingly grow into during my ‘ugly duckling’ teenage years. But every time I talked with Mom about my problems, she would describe how beautiful that swan cloud was in the sky. She would say how elegantly the magnificent wings drooped towards the upright stalwart body as they were just about to carry the majestic bird higher and higher up the sky; the beak and the neck poised downward in a way that showed there was certainty in her decision to fly. Even though after years of being told the same story, I always felt better after hearing it.

At my high school graduation, it was a hot cloudless day. I asked Mom what it meant when there are no clouds in the sky. “Is my future empty?” I joked, smirking at Mom. She thought for a while, smiled and said with a serious voice, “Yes, that’s exactly what it means,” I frowned, trying to think how that was supposed to encourage me. Then she added, “An empty future can be the best thing to have because it gives room for the limitless possibilities ahead of you.”

I found out how right she was in college. There were many clouds during that next summer, so much so that they even got a name: Hurricane Matthew. During the storm, every college dorm was evacuated and most students ended up in the campus gymnasium until everything was cleared. Little did I know at the time that those clouds quite literally moved me to meet a stormy-eyed senior named Matthew.

Matthew thought it was weird when I mentioned that we got married on a turtle cloud during our honeymoon. I told him I thought it was weird too, considering how we got married only after seven years of dating. When he asked what I meant by that, I told him that we might need to pick up the pace and have some kids.

Seven months later, my first daughter, Misty, was born on a dragon cloud. Being only four pounds and two ounces, the doctors rushed her to the NICU and attached her with all types of machinery to keep her alive. I still remember looking at her breathing tube and watching each of her strong little breaths turn to white vapor on the edges of the plastic, like smoke coming out her mouth. She was a fighter pushing through every obstacle even until this day. Since then, whenever Misty or any of my six children need me, I, like Mom, remind them of the cloud they were born on.

I knew the day I saw a raging bull cloud, bursting out of the seams of an approaching thunderstorm, that my life wasn’t going to be the same. It was the day I got the call that Mom and Dad were in a head on collision with a careless drunk driver. I remember the rain masking my tears as I entered those hospital doors. I could do nothing but to watch their motionless bandaged bodies lie on long thin beds.

During that moment, I hated the clouds. They were fake. Only mimics of what was real. And if they really did show us something, it would only be to look down on us and make fun of our menial little lives and problems. I looked at my broken mother and couldn’t help but thinking that she didn’t know what she was talking about. There is nothing in clouds but vapor. I didn’t feel special. I didn’t feel important. I only felt helpless and alone.

I slept in the hospital for several days until my father began opening his eyes. When he had the energy, he asked how Mom was doing. I couldn’t help but cry as I told him that she was still unconscious and that the doctors didn’t see much progress. It was a couple more days when Mom finally showed signs of consciousness. She couldn’t open her eyes or move her body, but she was able to produce airy grunts from her quivering mouth. The doctors showed surprise by her ability to do anything at all, although they knew her condition was still very serious and declining.

After a short while, I had the feeling Mom was trying to say something to me. The noises from her mouth were very difficult to hear and I knew she was in lots of pain, but she continued to sound something out. I approached her and asked if she could hear me. She made a short raspy hum which I felt was a ‘yes’. I immediately protested that she had to save her energy and get better. She responded with a half-cough. ‘No’. I cried and softly pressed my ear to her chest. I begged her to live, telling her that I needed her, that I couldn’t do this without her. At that moment, except for my uncontrollable sobbing, there was silence. Then I heard as clear as ever her breathe, “Swany… Fly”. She passed with those words.

As I left that cold hospital building that day, the rain which had been pouring non-stop during my week in the hospital had turned into a soft warm drizzle. The world was calm and silent. The clouds had parted to allow just a sliver of brazen sunlight to rest on the nearby trees. I looked up, water lightly splashing onto my cheeks. At that moment, looking at the sky and the clouds, there wasn’t a particular shape or reason. There wasn’t a prophetic sign or warning. I didn’t find a special cloud that was just for me. Rather, at that moment, the clouds looked like they belonged to more than just me. They belonged to Dad. They belonged to Matthew. They belonged to my children. They belonged to anyone who happened to be looking up at them. They belonged to Mom. At that moment, I realized I didn’t always need a special cloud to feel loved. I just need to look up and she is there.