The land was flat. The grass golden yellow from the sun's hot rays and the scarcity of clear cool rainfall. The knee-high grass swayed in the hot summer breeze like blue green waves smashing against the coastline in perfect rhythm. Beyond the plain of swaying dead grass was a house planted in the middle of this ocean. The house was ragged, small, and poorly built. The wood was worn from the elements of weather. Two dirty pane glass windows streaked with dust were a set eyes looking upon this land toward some small trees far off in the distance. This plot of land was plowed, but nothing seemed to grow. Nothing seemed to thrive in the dust.


I remember very little at this time. I was just a child when I fell sick one cold harsh winter. That winter the sickness took me over.


I do know that my father moved West in hope to farm land, but he was not a farmer. He was a poor storekeeper from New York. He wanted to get away from my mother's father, who kept watch over him and kept us from sliding into debt. My father wanted to support his family on his own and he was too stubborn to depend on someone else.


My mother was unhappy about the move. She was homesick and couldn't stand the heat of the West, the dirt, and lack of civilization. My mother gave up on my father. She left him and went back to New York. She couldn't stand how we lived with ends barely meeting. In the depths of my mind I often wondered when she would come back to me. I would imagine her walking through the door and grabbing me up in a whirlwind of hugs.


All I remember of my father was his footprints, so much bigger than my own and the sound of his voice faithfully reading the worn Bible to us every evening while the sun slowly set in the sky. The crimson red sun filling the sky every evening. Its golden yellow rays dancing upon the always dirty wooden floor. The rich purple lilacs staring back at me upon the papered wall. The smell of plums and tomatoes intertwining in late summer when my mother would preserve our toil. The aroma filling the air.





My toys were strewn out around the yard. My sand box my favorite place when I was young that late summer. It was the place where I would play with my toy tractor running it through the grey gritty sand in pure delight.



I imagine this place in my mind. Wondering now how my parents are on Earth. If they are happy and if somewhere this paradise really still exists. I was told I could hear my father's prayers, now from this far off place. The man who told me this must have been wrong because I no long hear his strong voice filled with faith praying for those crops to grow. I can no longer end the final chapter of my dream; to make it rain, so that dusty rolling plains will grow.


Still, I sit upon my soft white cloud with my beautiful pure white feathered wings attached to my back waiting, waiting for my father's prayer.