Aqua

Before the cities, there was wind over water.

Our city floats above the water; it is one of many such cities. The elders, aunts and uncles, say that under the waves are the cities of the old world – they have old names like New York and London, Tokyo, Amsterdam, Istanbul. We learn about them in school.

My city is called Aqua – it floats over the water that covers the city of Chicago. We have streets and buildings and elevated rail lines that mirror the sunken city below. One of those buildings was called Aqua. It had flowing lines above the street. Aqua had a view of the lake.

Once there were lakes and streams, a long winding river called the Mississippi. There were cornfields growing along its banks, my great aunt said. We have hydroponic gardens, now.

There is a floating city called Iowa, and my class went on a trip to see the rolling fields, the red barns, cows and pigs and horses. It was so different from Aqua, where there are parks and trees, squares of green between tall buildings. The open country frightened me, the low horizontal line of the horizon, the clouds, the sky. I was glad to go back to Aqua. I was terrified of the stars.

That is understandable, my uncle said. We have evolved beyond weather, here. I went to the city of Denver once. I saw jagged mountains covered with snow. The air was too sharp there.