When I was a little girl, I thought the white lines left behind by jets were called skyscrapers. I heard the word, and I saw something that looked as though it was what the word should refer to, and I assigned the thing that word without any doubt or hesitation. They do make the sky look as though it’s literally been scraped, the blue torn open to reveal jagged white. My mom must’ve thought I was crazy, driving around in the middle of our very suburban town, me in the backseat pointing out the window and yelling, “LOOK AT THE SKYSCRAPERS!”
Just now when I took Cautionary Dog outside for one last potty before bed, I looked up and saw a nighttime skyscraper, illuminated by the crescent moon. Standing there alone in the middle of my very urban city, the real skyscrapers of my adulthood, one of which I work in every single day, just a mile away.