“The sky’s yellow,” said a little kid at the break of dawn, the voice carried from their balcony across mine.
“Paint it,” said the mother, patient. I heard clanking sound, presumably the kid hurrying to get the art supplies.

The routine repeated throughout the day.
“The sky’s blue.”
“Paint it.”
“The sky’s red.”
“Paint it.”
“Now it’s black.”
“Paint it.”

I imagine the kid’s sketch to be full of all colors by nightfall, and sure enough I heard the high-pitched voice again.
“The picture looks awful now.”

“What kind of sky do you like?”
“I want it warm yellow with a tinge of blue and green, maybe also pink.”
“Paint it.”
“It doesn’t look much like the sky.”
“But it’s all yours, and it’s not gonna change.”
“What kind of sky is yours, mom?”
“It’s black dotted with silver and gold, with reddish hue.”

I imagine mine to be gray stroked with white and orange.
“What does dad’s sky looks like?”
“I don’t really know, you have to ask him straight, but I imagine he would like some blue and purple.”

“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“I think I have everyone’s skies here.”

I peeked outside to see what the kid handed to the mother. It was a blank white paper. She laughed and moved to close the kid into a warm embrace. I wonder what kind of sky tomorrow will be.

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