I like it when the sky is pink and fluffy at dawn, like cotton candy. The cotton candy sun maneuvers over the clouds like a surfer on a rolling tide. Pink stands next to you, shining on all that you see. My sister likes it when the sky is orange at dusk. Orange is powerful and beams until it’s solely submerged by the horizon. The sunset orange is the necklace she plays with when she’s nervous. My friend likes it when the sky is green, just after sunset. Green are the questions he asks to get to know someone new. Green is ominous and lurking in between the pitch Black of night and the diminishing daylight of Orange. My father likes it when the sky is gray. Loud rain drifts him to sleep like a lullaby to a baby. Gray is like a fireplace in the winter and like a hug on a bad day. 

Sky brings us peace. She hums the song of solid stains, the colors that speak most to us. I am Pink, Rose Pink, like the smell of 5 a.m. dew. My sister is Orange, Copper Orange, like the taste of sorbet under the 7 p.m. Sun. My friend is Green, Sacramento Green, like the hidden hues in the 8 p.m. moon. My father is Gray, Smoke Gray, like the smell of cinnamon during a 12 p.m. rainstorm. We appreciate Sky, following you wherever you go. You can never escape its song, it’s quiet yet loud. Its song, like a feather drifting past you, like a deer running in front of your car, is a sweet alarm. It’s an alarm like your mother lightly kissing your fragile forehead to wake. Sky is everyone’s best friend.