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I lie here, staring up. And up. And up. I’ve become so familiar with the smooth fabric over my head, shielding me from those tears that fall down, full of pity for what I’ve become. The slick, cool feeling as my hand brushes against it…the canvas is turquoise. It loves to look down at me, almost as if asking if I can remember the sky. I often wonder if I do remember the sky. I can’t help but feel like the sky was something that existed before this world. It was something to be enjoyed, like the warm waves of summertime sun, running through the dew-stained grass, laughing to yourself and looking left and right and back and forth. And up. The turquoise canvas is the closest thing I know that looks like blue skies. It’s soft, almost reflexive it its kindness. Blue skies mean no harm, they are protectors. I almost not dare to think reach back into my memories, because with blue skies comes Sawyer, and… Sawyer. I promised myself that Sawyer would stay gone. He’s the reason I’m trapped. There was no record of him. He didn’t exist, no birth certificate, no driver’s license, and no credit cards. He was a ghost. Newspapers called him a spirit. Followers called him the Son of God. ‘He was from a holy place,’ he said pointing within his chest when asked where he was from. Those who did not know him considered his answers evasive. Those who were not yet enchanted by him disbelieved that the Son of God was here now. Why? Why now? Why did he come? Those who followed his teachings knew he was incapable of telling an untruth. He always wore white cotton pants and a white tunic top that when the sun passed through the thin material of his clothes lit him up like a spiritual candle. The only piece of jewelry was the prominent display of his diamond cross that hung from a platinum chain. There was something in his face that made you want to befriend him, follow him, and believe whatever he preached. He was a holy man, but he preached no religion. Suddenly, wherever he appeared,.
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