I’m wearing my mother’s jeans. She bought them when she was younger than I am now–sometime in her college years. They fit me perfectly, not skin-tight, but with just a little give.
They’re stonewashed and worn soft, the fabric the color of a sky viewed through the barest wisp of clouds.
Jeans made of sky…
Sounds like a remake of The Emperor’s New Clothes.
I know the shade because I like to sky glance. It’s like sky watching, only with less purpose. I simply look up for a moment when I’m outside.
There’s plenty to see:
Clouds like the beach, when the sand is rippled by the retreating waves.
Moon floating pale and round against the china blue cloudless sky.
Sunset stains the clouds in reds, oranges, yellows, and purples.
It seems cloudless skies tend to be oppressively hot.
* * * *
Sky Blue Genes
My mother’s sky blue jeans
fit me well
I wear my mother’s genes
as strongly as time
has worn that denim
The same frame
grey green eyes
slender hands
The copy isn’t perfect
I’m worn pale
and stretched an inch in the wash
I wear the jeans
because some things last
beyond fabric
stitches
and a few rivets
caitlinsternwrites 