The Sky is Falling

Chicken Little ran around town screaming the "sky is falling" and it was. It is falling down everywhere: in Oakland and Haiti and Senegal and San Francisco.

It is falling in places where little girls are raped to bring shame on their families or to cure incurable diseases.

It is falling in empty cups, the debris crisp and hard like candy, except it's no t sweet. Sky has no taste. Sky is an optical illusion--it's fantasy.

It is falling into sewers, where at night people disappear forever.

It is falling and when I look up there are holes--round empty black holes where once there was light. It is falling and even when I stand on a ladder and raise my arms, empty my pockets, think hopeful positive thoughts, I feel weighted down, crushed, unable to stand.

As it falls I wonder how large is it and will it ever all fall down and how do you plug up a hole in something you can't explain. I tell Chicken Little to keep sounding the alarm. Perhaps if more of us lifted our arms to hold up the sky, then maybe it might stay above where it belongs.

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My friend is dying. She is aware less and everything hurts so holding her hand or rubbing her swollen feet is hard. Sometimes the journey to the next realm is lengthy, even when one can no longer eat and get out of bed, speak or stay conscious long. I am sick, so I can't visit. I don't know if Vivienne will be around when I a well.