The sky is almost, but not quite, the right color. Closer, oh yes- less bone-colored, less bleached- but still not quite the blue I remember rushing into my eyes when I cracked my lids, lying on my back in the grass, the blades of it scraping my skin, the whine of the cicadas lapping against my ears, that fat, wet air.
Though there's something to be said for a near miss.
I'm closer to home, then- but farther, too. Because this house is not mine, and the things in it, all the cheap furniture I dragged halfway across the country, looks only vaguely familiar crouching in its new corners, and the lamps are broken, and I have no friends.
Moving is a mower-down, a knocker-flat. You grow a life, let it creep up around you, and then all of a sudden it's scraped to its base.
Yet still, wheeling over you, that sky-