The Cloud That Carried Kisses

Above the village facing the sea, clouds often passed in the evening.

Some were grey, some gold, some thin as scarves. But one cloud was pink and round, and it moved more slowly than the others.

Inside it there were kisses.

Not noisy kisses. Not sticky kisses. Small, warm kisses sent by people who were far away: a father at work, a grandmother in another town, a friend on a journey, a cousin who had forgotten to call but not to care.

Little Emma saw the cloud from her balcony.

“Why is it pink?”

The cloud lowered itself a little. “Because I am full.”

“Full of rain?”

“Full of kisses.”

Emma laughed. “Clouds cannot carry kisses.”

The cloud opened gently. A tiny pink light floated down and touched Emma’s cheek. It felt like the kiss her father gave her before leaving early in the morning.

Emma became quiet.

“That one is from him.”

The cloud continued over the roofs. A kiss entered a window where an old woman was folding clothes. Another touched the pillow of a child who missed his brother. Another landed on the nose of a sleeping dog, who wagged his tail without waking.

Emma wanted to keep all the kisses.

“They are not all yours,” said the cloud. “Affection travels, but it knows where to go.”

“Can I send one too?”

“Of course.”

Emma closed her eyes and thought of her father. She did not shout. She placed a kiss in her hand and blew softly.

The pink cloud gathered it and sailed away over the sea.

That night, far away, her father looked up and smiled without knowing why.

From then on, whenever someone seemed distant, Emma looked for the pink cloud. If it was not there, she sent the kiss anyway.

She had learned that affection is clever. It finds light roads: wind, thought, memory, cloud.