shards.

The sky fell on a Thursday.

It had been falling for a while, slowly, by degrees, but no one had really noticed. But that morning, Atlas finally had enough. His shoulders gave out. The sky came crashing. Simple as that.

The sky never stood a chance, the people said. Not from that height.

No one bothered to ask how Atlas was. How his shoulders felt. How long he’d been holding that weight. Exactly how heavy it was.

So long as it was being held, it turned out, folks didn’t really care about the details. Even for something as big and important as the sky. And now it was down. And now the only thing people wanted to know was how long before it would go back up.

But Atlas didn’t have an answer. Atlas didn’t care.

You tell me you wish someone would be sweet to you.

Just once in your life.

You tell me you wish someone would say:

“I am glad you are taking care of yourself.

I want you to be happier; healthier.”

You tell me you wish you were allowed

to rest, to breathe, to be.

I tell you that you are allowed.

I tell you that you need to rest.

To breathe.

To be.

I tell you this every day.

(You tell me you wish you were allowed

to rest, to breathe, to be.)

I tell you I’ll help you make space.

I tell you that you can have all the space you need.

You tell me you wish someone cared.

I say: “Okay.”

On Friday, the light from the sun was still reflecting off the pieces of the sky left hanging in the atmosphere. The sky was made of glass, after all, the people found out. When it fell, old cracks that had been spreading cracked more as gravity took it, and it broke apart on the way down.

It was just too much.

By the time it hit the Earth, it was already mostly gone. Just dust. Just the memory of something that wasn’t broken. Just something that used to look whole.

Amazingly fragile, the sky, the people said. Something really should have been done. If only we had known about the cracks. We could have repaired them, made the sky stronger, and Atlas could have picked it back up when he dropped it, and everything would be okay now.

On Friday evening, Atlas felt terrible. He’d known about the cracks, he’d seen them forming for some time. His fingers still ached from holding them together; from willing them to stay in place. Another day. Another night. Just one more, and one more, and one more. But it hadn’t been enough. There was always one more. There was always too much. Maybe if he hadn’t dropped it in the first place, it wouldn’t have broken apart.

Maybe we can glue the sky back together, some of the people said. Maybe we can gather enough pieces to make it worth putting back up, to make it worth holding. No matter if there are a few holes. No matter if it falls apart again tomorrow. At least we’d have a sky to look at today.

But Atlas was tired. Too tired. He had stopped listening to their ideas.

The light continued to dim.

I ask you who you think needs to treat you sweetly.

Who you mean when you want someone to be kind.

“The people who never let me go,” you tell me.

“Not you,” you tell me. “You’re normal. You’re kind.”

I don’t count, you mean.

The people who once should have

shown you kindness and didn’t

still cannot and will not

treat you kindly.

And therefore, anything I do will not be enough.

I will not be enough.

I ask you to trust me to help you.

You tell me you need to sleep a while.

By Saturday, all the light had gone. The sky was finally done falling. Every last bit of it had settled into the Earth and the oceans or had been blown back out into orbit to rejoin the stars.

Atlas slept.

Please forgive me.

When will the sky return? The people were beginning to worry.

All the world was dark. All the world was cold.

And still, Atlas slept.

It’s not me who matters.

I’m a monster.

I’ve already broken everything.

After a week, the world had begun to freeze. The people were beginning to learn to live in the cold, and those who could not learn stood outside Atlas’ door and screamed and screamed into the skyless night.

Devil, they called him.

Betrayer.

Failure.

Death.

And Atlas slept, and his dreams were filled with glass.

I tell you that you need to make space.

I tell you that I want you to make space, even if that space is from me.

“I don’t know if I can weather this,” you tell me.

“I don’t know how to abandon people.”

I tell you this isn’t abandonment, it is care.

I tell you I’m going to let you rest. That I am going to rest.

I tell you I’m going to let you reach out when you’re ready.

When you need me.

You tell me: “Don’t worry.”

You tell me: “I’ll always be here.”

I say: “Okay.”

It’s difficult to build a sky.

It’s difficult to find the right materials, the right people for the job.

It’s such an easy thing to break.

But as Atlas slept, the people still needed a sky.

So they worked, and they built scaffolds and towers of stone and steel––sturdy materials that would last a long time.

They built their villages around the towers for the people to live and take care of them when the wind wore them down, when the floods weakened their foundations.

And when they were done with this, they climbed the towers and they assembled the new sky––everyone contributed a piece, a cloud, a star, a moon. They built it out of memories; prayers; kindnesses. They built it out of joy and sadness both; out of hope.

And they let Atlas rest.

For as long as he needed.

For as long as he could.

You tell me that I’m always safe with you.

I tell you I know.

You say: “Good.”