Is it realistic to believe I can think like Nighthawk again? The war is over, and I’m a different person now. I stare at my reflection in the river–it’s me, but these clouds are clearly foreign. Such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky doesn’t happen anywhere else. I’ve tried to forget the beauty, along with the horror.
But the memory of that day insists on surfacing. That day–when the sun shone in the azure sky dotted with cotton balls, and sunflowers reached up for honeyed streams of golden light. We made love and scraped together some scraps for a meager meal. We thought it a feast, washed down with some local wine we had found in the shed. Oh, Paul! If only we had had more days like that. If only that safe house had truly been safe.
I’m continuing with my story of wartime spies for dVerse, where I’m hosting Prosery today. I should mention that anyone can participate in any dVerse prompt, as long as you can post a link in the Linky. This Thursday will be Open Link Night–live.
The lines I’ve selected for today’s prompt:
“But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter
Against the blue cloth of the sky”
–from “Clouds” by Constance Urdang