Castles in the sky.

Airy fairy, sugar-spun, cotton candy webs that lace the air.

Everyone has one. Some people have a dozen. I have seven.
When I line them up side by side they even have bits that snap together, like whole villages of those Fisher Price toys. The complete set.

They live in my closet, gently bobbing up and down on the plastered ceiling. The closet is small, but they fit nicely, no crowding. They are in their compact mode right now—easy for travel, storable. Small castles.

But sometimes I take them out in the yard and unfold them, just to see what happens. They pop open like a pack-n-play and spread from horizon to horizon, so beautiful I want to cry.

Castles in the sky.

Crystalline strands rising in stout walls and soaring turrets. They look as strong as diamond, light as gauze, architecture unbelievably delicate yet powerful.

I don’t take them outside often, though. Light as dandelion fluff, with the first gust of wind they blow away.