The Sky Remembers
I stood beneath a sky that seemed to listen. The clouds carried names I had forgotten, and every wind that passed felt like an ancestor breathing through my lungs. Here, memory was not heavy — it floated, patient and bright.
The sky is not empty. It is a living archive of everything that has ever been spoken into light. I felt it gather above me, folding and unfolding like a scroll written in air. Every gust was a sentence unfinished, every stillness a promise waiting to be read.
In that wide silence, I understood that remembrance does not always dwell in the soil. Some memories rise — lighter than grief, brighter than loss — carried by wind until someone dares to lift their face again. The sky remembers what the earth once buried. It turns sorrow into vapor and carries it back as rain.
I watched the horizon breathe, gold spilling into blue, and I knew this was communion: a meeting between the seen and unseen. To listen to the sky is to learn how to release — to speak without sound, to pray without request, to remember without holding.
When I finally closed my eyes, I could still feel it — the pulse of light above me, old and kind, whispering that everything we’ve ever loved is still moving somewhere in the air. The sky remembers so that we can learn to rise again.
The Wind Keeper
The wind was a keeper of stories — each breath a messenger from those who walked before.
Echoes of Light
Somewhere between dusk and dawn, the light spoke back — it remembered being called divine.
Names Among Clouds
Every cloud had a name once, whispered by those who rose before us, still waiting to be remembered.