When I set my belongings on the floor, when I sat on my father's old bed, the mattress sagging beneath my weight, I felt like gravity was pulling me down, down toward the earth beneath the musty foundation of the house. How horrible uncertainty was. How cruel. If I'd never get to see my father again, I didn't want to know.
An expanse of blue-gray clay stretched endlessly north, tall, green-gray grass swaying with the wind. What portions of terrain weren't cut with gullies and gulches sloped miles downward into dry canyons. Here, the sun was its brightest, the wind its coolest; the landscape looked like a vivid retelling of a child's dream.
The first sign of sunlight appeared above the horizon, dim, the color of saffron. It spread like wildfire into the night and lit the walls of drifting clouds, previously invisible, with a fiery haze. The sun was soon to follow, rosy when it peeked shyly above the distant cliffs and crags, white-gold when it caught up with its own aura. Now the sky was gritty and blue, like ocean slate—like Rafael’s eyes. The fiery clouds cooled to opal, milky and mute-white. And the blue flowers all unraveled their folded petals and opened at the same time.
Restlessness, consequently, became a powerful thing....Sometimes I entertained the idea of visiting my old house again...
"...nothing bothers me more than animals getting hurt."
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