to listen to the sky

The Sun still kisses my cheeks in the late evening. It’s a bit of a change from the way the dark used to fall at earlier hours than this, but now, the Sun stays a little while longer, here to sit down for a little bit more.

I’ve missed him so.

The Night’s company is rather comforting, and the Stars are a friendly smile against the dark. The Moon, though rather changing, is always thrilling to see because you never know what new face she has for you. I quite enjoyed listening to her stories while the Stars danced them out for me. It made my evening stroll quite entertaining. And sure, I’ll miss them soon once I have had plenty of time with the Sun. But now, he is the one I’m eager to meet.

Now, instead of dancing Stars or a story-telling Moon, tranquil Clouds and a gentle Sun keep me company. People always thought of Sun as a bit of an energetic fellow as he is the one who paints the sky gold and who plays with the children all day. There are times I agree. Yet, his true nature shows in the evening, when he is as calm and serene, as the Night would often be, while he slowly whispers and tucks everyone to sleep before the Moon comes to take his place. That was when he would tell me the world’s secrets. He would tell me what he had seen throughout his journey in the sky. Moon’s stories were adventurous fiction and legend, dreams that people conjured, but Sun’s tales were anecdotes from the Earth itself. They’re people’s lives put into a novel for the eager ears of a young girl on a spring evening.

Right now, he tells of the young boy he saw just outside of town, a small child. Animated, he describes. The boy would chase chickens outside, and that was how he would spend his evenings. “How different you two are,” he tells me. I smile back at him knowingly.

I am curious about the boy and his chickens; he reminds me of a younger child I knew from long ago. One who also lived on a farm and had animals beside her, who learned to speak to them and listen to their stories, and she listened to them when they told her to lend her ear to the Sky. I wonder if the boy’s chickens told him that too.

Yet, as much as I try to listen, my mind is reluctant to pay attention tonight. It aches to just sit back and bathe in the Sun’s setting light and gaze at the Clouds as they prepare the Sky for Night. My mind half-listens to the little boy’s tale, but mostly, it drowns the Sun’s voice into white noise and lets my soul enjoy this evening.

My feet move on their own as I continue to explore the garden. Although I’ve been here many times before, at this same hour, there’s always something new that greets me in my journey. Especially now, at the changing of the seasons, when the grass is starting to peek out from the melting snow. Or a restless squirrel scouring up the tree, coming from nowhere and brings a welcome shock of surprise. A few days before, when I chose to walk during the dawn instead, I was amazed to hear a songbird singing. It was a tune that I’ve so longed for. As much as I adored winter’s song, a songbird’s melody wakes me up more than a cup of coffee, maybe as much as the Sun awakens the Earth.

Awakening. A reawakening. That’s what spring is.

People tell of spring as a new beginning, a chance to start anew. I never understood that idea. To me, spring is just another cog in the endless cycle of the seasons, is it not? Just the Earth waking up again from slumber to the same old life, same old setting, same old people. Nature was dormant for a while, but now it is awake and will be awake until it sleeps again, then it will wake up once more. A never-ending cycle of a slumber and an awakening.

A reawakening, not a new beginning. (A resurrection, if you will. Maybe that’s why Easter landed on the spring season.)

It’s just the same old story retold. A replay of the same old beginning, of the same old things.

I guess in a way, that’s how all stories are. It’s the same set of plots retold over and over again; only this time, the characters change a single detail about themselves. But the same mistakes get played, the same ending is met. Whatever story you were living, someone has lived before.

I see it from the Moon’s stories, Sun’s too. People dream of the same things: love, power, comfort, assurance. And people live the same: the girl in the subway made the same mistake as the man whose wife wouldn’t talk to him, the little boy had his chickens to accompany him while the girl had the Sun and Moon.

I guess our souls were cut from the same cloth.

At this, I breathe out a sigh. I didn’t even realize I’ve stopped walking. My feet stay unmoving on the damp cobblestone. I guess the snow had just melted there. I don’t hear the Sun anymore either, and his light has grown dimmer. The Sky is preparing itself for Night. I guess the Sun realized I’m not in the mood for stories anymore.

 I yearned for the Sun’s company for a long time, but now that he is here to tell me stories, I become too preoccupied with my wandering thoughts. Inside, some part of me did ache to be special. But another part of me also hoped that there was someone else out there who listened to the Sky as much as I do.

Some part of me hoped that I wasn’t alone. Because although as much as I loved the Sky’s company, it would be nicer if someone was enjoying it with me.

So, another part of me hopes: if we were all cut from the same cloth, is there someone else who shares my mind?

Yet, I set that thought aside. Because for now, I race to the west to catch the Sun’s departure. I’m lucky that he drags out his leave, careful to greet every living thing one last time before the darkness takes his place. When I catch up to him, he tells me I have a few minutes to hear the rest of the little boy’s day.

Any amount of time is worth hearing the Sky’s tales.

The Sun kisses my cheeks goodnight in the late evening. It’s a bit of a change from the Moon would greet me with glistening smiles, but now, the Sun stays a little while longer, here to sit down for a little bit more.