The people we miss are painting the sky

I like to think the people we miss are the ones painting the sky for us. We said that on a Reel and thirty-four people spoke back. Not with theory. With names.

Sunset is allowed to be a memorial. You don’t have to explain why a pink cloud made you cry in the grocery parking lot. Beauty can hold what language drops.

If today is an anniversary nobody else marked, you can still mark it. Look up. Say the name. Let the color do some of the holding.

If you’re sitting with someone else’s grief, you don’t need a perfect sentence. Sit. Stay. Let the sky be the third person in the room.