Slice of Sky

I took this photo from the driver’s seat of my car, basking in the warmth spilling through the open sunroof. It was my first time out of the house in a week, a shock to the system reminding me that it is the smallest things that make us feel like ourselves. 

I parked overlooking a bike path, wishing I had dressed for exercise. The drive wasn’t planned. . . I had gone out to the car to fetch a case of water, and it occured to me that if my car sat unused too long, it might not start. Once the engine fired up, it was involuntary: I pulled away from the curb. Escape!

Nowhere to go, nothing to do, but the sun and the air were enough. 

My phone rang—unknown number—and I ignored it, because that is what we do. I haven’t been socially distant long enough to crave conversation with a telemarketer. 

Voicemail. Huh.

Returning the call, I worried. It had only been a week. . . Was there a problem with my application? Maybe this was an on-the-spot interview, a way to gauge if I could discuss my writing at a high enough level. . .  

Instead, I got the best possible news in the midst of this crazy pandemic—not at all what I was expecting. The last time I applied for school, acceptance letters arrived in fat envelopes after months of waiting. 

Today a stranger took the time to reach out personally, sharing a celebration over the phone (the way that device was originally designed to be used). 

It reminds me that connection matters. Our dreams matter. I jumped with both feet, and the parachute opened. I got a glimpse of the sky today, and it helps me to be hopeful for what is to come. 


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