Life in Clouds

Clouds come with many hues and patterns; just like human emotions. On sunny days, it's the purest form of white. But the white fluffy one, given time, cumulates rain. When dark, it pours its heart out, blinds us with lightning.
My grandfather used to take me on a walk to the rail station. We spent most of the time on the railway over the bridge. Beneath the sky, looking over the trains. The train stations always emanate a sense of departure and arrival to me. Students coming home from college, grown-ups getting on board for their 9-5 job. It's a game of love and loss. On the contrary, looking up was easy. There was not much to look at, only the clouds, seemingly steady; a green band of trees at the horizon and some couples of birds. But it delivered a sense of infinity.
I always tried to imagine what it feels like to be amongst the clouds, the white one. They just float around. Can I make cotton candy out of them? The one they make in fairs? When the sunset was about to drop the veil on earth, I tried to distinguish between the shades of red amongst the pallet of cloud. Or have they been yellow?
I wanted to ask grandpa, can I hop on the clouds, with a trampoline? Can I just grab an airplane and go land on it? Can I get a little closer if I climb over that telephone tower? Maybe the birds were a little closer to the clouds. We should keep a bird to exchange news with the cloud castle.
My grandpa used to laugh at me, a laugh from the heart. Maybe he laughed because I was a dreamer like him. Parading about the weird theories in my head. His big palm hovered over my head, making a mess of my hair. He used to tell grandma about my shenanigans when we returned from the cloud-castle.
Now that he is gone, every time I'm near a railway over a bridge or looking at the clouds, I wish I could ask him 'can you see me from up there, grandpa?', 'I hope you sought out my questions with them even if there is no way to let me know the answers'. 'Is the cloud palace treating you well? Don't let them serve sugar in your dishes.'
But now I understand the white, pure, fluffy ones, they may be slow but they don't stop, they float to their destinations. And I don't have much time looking away from my laptop. The coffee gets cold, the sandwich gets soggy and dust sets on the white garland on your picture. But know this, as long as I look at clouds and tragically fail to take an artistic picture of it, we are good. Your little dreamer hasn't forgotten her storyteller.