The sky. He loved the sky. It was a strange thing to favor, something so plain and ordinary, something that most people took for granted, but I think that was part of the appeal. We sit and we stand and we reside underneath the sky day after day, night after night. No matter what may be happening on Earth; war, love, peace, disaster; the sky remains impartial, draped over the human race like an autumn sweater. Though I find that extraordinary, it wasn’t what made him love it. He loved the simplicity of the sky, but most of all, he loved its varying colors. A pale, ocean blue, contrasted by withering streaks of grey on a storm-stricken day. The splash of faded orange during a sunset, almost too timid to reveal its true fiery radiance. He would marvel at the pink cotton candy clouds and ask himself what, in all of nature, gave them their pastel tint? The sky was such a simple thing to favor. It wasn’t something rare to be fond of. Just the same old sky that hung over our heads day after day, always looming. If only he had liked some rare arctic butterfly. It would’ve been better if he had- I can forget some rare arctic butterfly. I wouldn’t have to stare at that arctic butterfly every-day. I wouldn’t be confronted by the fact that he’d loved it so very much every time I looked up past the clouds. Arctic butterflies are hard to come by. The sky is not. Arctic butterflies are objectively beautiful- anybody who saw one would say so. I’d be able to appreciate them and their beauty without being reminded of the pain. That isn’t the case with the sky. People don’t care for the sky. Most of the time, dark storm clouds are not regarded as “beautiful”. A bolt of lightning, illuminating the sky and the world around it, is not regarded as beautiful. It is regarded as strange, even frightening. It takes a very special type of person to appreciate the beauty of a storm, of a lightning bolt. It takes a special type of person to see the beauty in the everyday-ordinary sky. That’s what made my father so special. That’s what made the sky so special to me. But that was then. When he was here. When he left, he took the beauty of the sky with him. Now all that remains is a barren wasteland above my head, taunting me with light thoughts and sharp memories. So here I stand under his beloved sky only a few feet away from him, and I can’t help but think that he does not deserve to know- to remember- who I am. He told me that I look familiar. How can you appreciate the beauty of a wicked, disastrous storm but not the beauty of your own daughter? How can you remember all the types of clouds in the sky yet not the face of your own child? Does he not realize that I, too, see the beauty in the sky, in the storms. I see it every time I look up, and I hate that I’m like him. I hate that I see the beauty in the sky. I can only pray that I never hurt someone as badly as he hurt me. None of my thoughts turn into words, though, as I hand him his coffee cup. My hands are shaking slightly, but I ignore them. “Here you are, Sir,” I say politely. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he removes the cup from my trembling hand. “Thanks.” There’s a pause. Please don’t… “Are you sure I don’t know you from somewhere?” I shake my head. “I’m afraid not.” He tilts his head to the side, trying to place my “familiar face”. “No, I’m sure I’ve seen you before… what’s your name again?” “Angela,” I lie. It is a name that does not belong to me, but I can’t tell him that. If I told him my real name, Annika, he’d remember all too quickly who I really am. No matter what happens, we will always have the sky, and, for now, that is all I want us to have. Just a jumble of painful memories that once brought us joy, because I like the memory of my father more than him himself. As he turned to leave, I let out a breath. We’ll always have the sky.