I am sitting at the kitchen table with my husband before dinner. We're drinking a beer and eating pretzels and talking about the day. And while we're talking, I look over his shoulder out the window where gray-bellied clouds are moving across a blue sky. There is gold light behind the clouds and I think that everything life could ever mean is about to be revealed.
Maybe it's the beer, but maybe not. Should I interrupt my husband's narrative to alert him to this revelation? I remain silent and try to watch the clouds while appearing attentive to the conversation. There's something about cloud formations that thrills and alarms me-because they change while I am watching them.
"There will never be another cloud like this one," I think and even as I'm having this thought, the cloud is transforming itself into another shape or moving away or dissolving into nothingness. All of life is like this, of course-but it's not so visible, so obvious, so terrifying.
"What are you looking at?" my husband asks.
"Oh, just some clouds," I say, "They looked so pretty with the light behind them. They're gone now."