Your father belongs to the sky.He skims the bottom of clouds and keepsa watchful eye on everything below.Sometimes he spreads thin and you almostcannot see him, or he dances just out of viewon the breath of the wind, but he’s always there.Other days, he’s large, dark or bright,and people can’t help butlay in the grass and watch, imagining, guessingat what he is, at how he takes theinsubstantial and makes it somethingremarkable.
Your mother belongs to the ground. Roots andEarth, solid and constant—but not immovable,not invulnerable to tremors and collapse.She has spent years looking up and imagining,guessing at what life would be like without two feetfirmly planted. She has climbed mountains and trees,skipped or jumped to taste a moment of flight.She reached as high as she could stretch for the hintof such excitement as the sky.One day,the sky (remarkably)reached back.
And then there was you.
You are l i g h t n i n g,born from the stretch between clouds and Earth.A flash of bright in the middle of a storm.You are electric, charged—a sudden boy with flashesthat people count down to.You are the taste of static in the air and the feeling ofevery hair standing on end. You are impossible odds andchance, warmth so unbelievable it could be nothing less thanfire, racing through veins and leaving a shock of shining,purple scars in your wake. Tracing them feels like amemory of you.
Have you ever seen someone struck by lightning?Just look at your parents and the buzz that hums through them,every time you smile.