Rolling Abundance

So every day, you go sit on the train tracks. Or near enough every day, anyhow. Whenever you feel like leaving the house. And you're not really sitting on the tracks - you could if you wanted to 'cause nothing but you comes down here any more, but it's all rock beneath the metal, and there's a grassy patch beside the tracks that's a lot more comfortable. 'A lot' meaning 'still barely tolerable.'

You pick out one of the patchwork scraps of sky between the overhead lines and stare up at it, really stare, until your eyes water and the sun leaves pale streaks of greenish light on the insides of your eyelids when you blink. Try and burn a snapshot of it into your memory, before you move to the patch beside it. Again, and again, and again, 'til you've filled out a little bingo card of clouds in different colours. You came down later yesterday, it was darker then. Reds and pinks where you only see blue now. In the little triangle near the top of the pole; red, red, white, didn't come that day, yellow, blue. Almost a whole week back, but you can't remember how it looked on Sunday. You're getting better. Used to be that you'd forget how one spot looked after just a couple hours of watching. Waiting. Fitting it together, one visit at a time, all jigsaw pieces and fuzzy recollections.

Tomorrow, you decide, it'll be gray. Not storm-dark and heavy, or that delicate sort of blue that looks silver when it's not too sunny, just gray. Sheets of slate slotted into place like roof tiles in the rectangles overhead, smooth planes of colour where clouds smother the whole sky, a dome of them that makes you feel as if you're inside of a snowglobe. Granite, maybe - but in a pretty way. Aberdeen in the sunlight, wet pavement under the warm glow of streetlamps, that sort of thing. It'll be nice. You'll be there to see it.