My mom would explain repeatedly that the sky did not really fall. Nor would it, at any point in the near future. Yet, there I would stand, firmly planted in ankle deep grass on a hillside and squint upward at the sky, anxiously looking for The Spot that would first crack like a white egg shell, and then spill forth much like the flowing yellow yoke of an egg. Would the sun burst downward in a ball of fire? Would the clouds float and then, suddenly, plummet onto me like a blanket of cotton balls that would catch in my nose and throat and make it impossible to catch my breath? Would the sky be transparent and formless or crash down upon us in a fury of hail and painful wind?
I wondered. Some days, I still pause to remember that fear and wonder rolled into one ball of clenched nausea in the pit of my stomach.
You see, as adults, we tend to know that clenched fist in the gut all too well.
There have been many, many days when I felt the sky was falling. Not in the graphic way my five year old self thought... but in the too real way all adults experience.
The day that doctor told me my child would not live past age ten.
The moment that another doctor walked down a dimly lit hall of a famous NYC hospital to tell us my mother's operation would not contain the evil that is cancer that had settled in her brain.
The days when the bills pile higher than the cash.
The days you smile and buy ice cream because groceries cost too much.
The days when you look at your bright and brilliant offspring and realize that you would give them all the terra firma of this world if not for that damn sky.... tilting, spiraling, suspended just above your head. Falling.
Henny Penny may have clucked some nonsense, but that Chick had a point. What if the sky IS falling... a little every day... or in sudden fury... and we are so intent on putting one foot in front of the other on the ground in front of us that we miss it until it is crashing over our heads and filling our ears with a silent gush of soft wind, like the sound made when your head hits the pillow and sleep comes suddenly?
I say, look up. Squint into the sun, see the fluffy forms of clouds and imagine creatures there, or count the stars in a bright summer night sky. Catch snow flakes on your tongue or let rain drops splash tears off your face. I would much rather embrace the falling sky than have head to ground and miss the glory of the fall.
