You know what they say… the sky is always bluer on the other side.

All my life, I’d heard tales of a land on the other side of the rainbow. It was a place where little boys and girls had wings, where there were no scraped elbows and bruised knees, and where no one was picked last. Night after night, I dreamed I was carried by the North Wind to reach this magical land, and I would go on grand adventures with unicorns, and dragons, and mermaids who gave fire to the underground dwellers. I longed to disappear into those dreams, to never return to the waking world where there were always bruises, and I was always picked last, and no one had wings. But there are no rainbows in the darkness. I am stuck. As I grew older, I stopped believing in a land on the other side of the rainbow. I stopped believing in blue skies and smiles. But the memories of wonderful adventures never left me, and I regretted that I had heard the tales to begin with, for they were a constant thorn in my side. When they launched the first airship, they talked of rainbows. The whole world was alight with the hollow hope of reaching a world beyond our own, a world with blue skies. By the time the seven hundredth airship launched, it was little more than a cynical footnote. “Blue skies!” they would laugh. “Show me a rainbow and I’ll show you an other side!” And they would decry the dreamers for dreaming and call them to focus on building a better world where we are now. There is no other side. There is only here. She was just as cynical as the rest. A footnote in my life, I used to think. But she remembered her dreams, too, dreams of fanciful adventures. And she would look into my eyes, piercing, as if pressing her thoughts into my mind with earnest fingers, and talk of the world where children had wings. I wish I had asked for her name. I dreamed of her only once after that chance passing, and we went on a journey together with unicorns and dragons and mermaids. I was sad that it was only once. The decades passed us all by. No more airships were sent into the black, and no one talked of rainbows anymore. When youngsters longed for more, their parents would shake their heads and say, “The sky is always bluer on the other side.” Reality hit everyone harshly when it finally hit. No one told anymore tales of a land on the other side of the rainbow. But I still remembered. I still thought of the world where children had wings. I died on a Saturday to the sound of a viola down the street, its simple strains drifting through the open window. The skies were black as ever, the air stale, but the music was pleasant and light, and I was content. There was a fluttering quality to the music that made me think of birds in blue skies. I inhaled the gentle sound, sinking into the memory of dreams, sinking into the land where children had wings. “The skies are bluer here, doncha think?” a voice said into my soul. I opened my eyes, blinking in the blinding light. A shadow stood above me, and as it came into focus, I recognized the woman I had met only once, whose name I never knew. She was smiling, and she held out a hand to me, framed by a pair of the most beautiful brown feathered wings. “I’m so glad you finally woke up,” she went on, still stretching her fingers out to me. I gingerly reached up and took her hand in mine. It was warm and strong. “Welcome to the other side.”