The Sky Was Not Blue

Glenn had often marveled at the thinness of April’s fingers compared to his own. Every single time her hand was in his, it felt heartbreakingly fragile. Even after it had undoubtedly been hundreds of times that she had slipped her hand against his hand, running her fingers along his palm first before curling her fingers into the spaces between his own, he remained ever diligent about walking the line between holding it tight enough that she would know how much he didn’t want to let her go, and being soft enough that he wouldn’t crush her impossibly small bones.

“What’re you thinking about?” April looked at him through half-lidded eyes, a dusty strand of green alfalfa tangled in her thick, hazel bangs. He laughed as he plucked it away and then brushed her hair with his hand. The edges of her hair were haloed with the red-gold glow from the misshapen rays of sun pushing its way through the rotted holes of the hayloft roof.

“I was thinking about how your fingers are too small. It’s unfair, really. My big oafish hands are gonna crush ‘em someday and then you won’t love me anymore.”

April laughed at Glenn, and her joyful voice reminded him of the surprisingly rich and melodious sound that came from the chintzy seashell-adorned chimes that were once on the porch at his mother’s house. He remembered noticing the bulges of hot-glue peeking out from underneath the off-white and brown shells that circled the wooden disc at the top of the chimes, remembered hearing their echoed tinkling through the screen door as he sat on the floral patterned couch in her living room, watching her water her plants as she told him about her busy week. But then she got sick and sold her home. She had to sell nearly everything she owned so that she could go live somewhere meant for sick people to die.

Suddenly, he couldn’t hear April’s laugh anymore. And he couldn’t remember exactly what the chimes had sounded like.

Glenn opened his eyes. He sat up, and his vision adjusted to the flat and grey-yellow strands of decaying hay beneath him. It smelled moldy and dusty and his lungs felt raw after breathing it in for so long.

Why had everyone he ever loved been so small and fragile? He felt like such a big and clumsy thing... but they had loved him back, loved him until they died. And there he was, too robust to get sick at all, even after crying his eyes red and breathing in aerosolized mold in a dark barn for the better part of an hour.

When he climbed down the ladder from the hayloft, each step creaked woefully under his heavy frame, but the last step sighed with the raspy and spongy sound that only waterlogged barn wood can make. It reminded him of the labored breathing of his mother. It reminded him of the sound that April used to make when she was disappointed in him.

Outside of the barn, he was met with the scent of wet grass, carried on a harsh and cold late afternoon air that hit his already sore lungs with a shrinking ache. Through bleary and burning eyes, he looked up and found no red-gold sun— only an oppressively dark grey sky hung above him.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t had any happy days since the two fragile little people that he had loved so much left the world. There had been things that made him smile. And, he had plenty of pleasant times remembering both of them. But, sometimes he cried all day. And sometimes the outside world seemed determined to help him along in having a bad day. Like that day, with an overwhelmingly dismal sky and piercing air and an unsettling quietness, an environment devoid of birds and chittering bugs or the distant sound of the horses on the neighboring property running through sun-touched fields.

Glenn made his way towards the gravel driveway, and as soon as the sole of his boot crunched against the thick layer of bits of rock, his dog inside the house a little ways down the driveway reacted with an excited bark. And he smiled, finally, at that sound. Someone was waiting to see him; someone else fragile and in need of his care, in need of him to be happy and alive and energetic. And maybe, he thought, that would just always be his life… providing whatever little comfort and safety he could to things and people who would die long before him. How wonderful to be needed, he thought. Even if it was only for a little while.

He headed inside and fed the dog dinner with a soft and long-lingering smile as he watched her wag her tail and look up at him lovingly with sparkling eyes. And later that night as she laid on his lap, he pet her with a painstaking gentleness, careful not to be too heavy with his big and clumsy hands. How wonderful to be needed, even on a bleak, grey-skyed day. How wonderful to be wanted, even after everyone else had died. He closed his eyes and thought again about April, haloed and shining warmly in the sun But that time, he didn’t cry.