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Clouds
by Alexandra van de Kamp

Magritte painted them like facts, constantly floating above us, and then called them
“The Curse,” “The Heartstring,” knowing they were an object so familiar we would know them by any name. When the mood struck him, he would sit them on top of a wineglass like a somber vanilla mousse. Today, they are like a line of butlers dressed in white carrying a platter ceremoniously to somewhere else. A cloud is a definition for loss: each one is a hat you will never wear, each skims past your worries to move on to other stories. At times, you have felt them dipping into your rooms—a darkness staining your fingers, your mind on other things. Like distant relatives that never call, they congregate in a far corner of your life. If there were angels—pragmatic and unperturbed—these would be them. They fly above us, a fragmented religion, reminding us no story stays intact—each narrative eventually breaking up under the ongoing prattle of itself. I want to call them boats, but what do they carry but water and our thoughts?

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