When I was little, I used to lay outside and reach my hands up to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds if I just extended my arms a little further and float away with them.

“Mary, hurry up!” My ma called back to me from inside the house.

I stood up, still looking at the clouds above wondering where they were traveling to and wanting desperately to join.

“Dinner is almost ready!”

The screen door creaked open, slamming shut behind me as I ran into the kitchen. Bridget was setting the table while Matt helped ma finish the mashed potatoes.

“Are they from the box, or are they real?” Bridget questioned.

We could always tell the difference.

My mom ignored her, stirring the gravy and signaling Matt to add more butter.

“Hurry, your father will be home any minute,” she urged.

We quickly took our places at the table, while ma placed the food down along with its sides. The car rumbled in the driveway as my dad pulled up from work, taking a minute to finish his cigarette before turning it off. I folded my hands together and bowed my head for the evening prayer; the one he led every night upon entering the house.

The door creaked open and shut again, with the lingering smell of smoke dancing behind him.

“God, thank you for this meal.” He proceeded. “We now pray for our individual intentions”

“God, please take me away on a cloud. If you’re real, let me float away with you, to start over again,” I bowed my head further, repeating the prayer to myself, hoping this time it would happen.