Starbright
Jun. 22nd, 2004 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
falcongrrl“C’mon!” the four year old says, rushing down to the edge of the driveway.
“Watch out,” I call, an alarmed edge to my voice. He’s silhouetted in two circles of light rounding the corner, but he’s stopped well before the edge of the driveway. One way that four is easier than two is in the healthy respect he’s developed for the power of automobiles. Finally. With a slight amount of psychological scarring on my part nudging him there, perhaps.
I pick my own way through the front yard, overgrown grass brushing across my ankles, the ground soft and damp under my bare feet. I join him at the bottom of our steep driveway, sitting down, crossing my legs, and gazing up at the cloudy night sky.
“Look, Mommy, the first star’s out.” I don’t know how he can see it; the sky’s too hazy for me to make out any stars at all. “And when the first star is in the sky, you just have to make a wish.”
I can’t argue with such logic; besides, as I know from experience, it’s pointless to try.
I close my eyes. The ringing of crickets assaults my ears. Memory’s betrayed me; I had no idea they were so loud. My mind’s been filtering, relegating them to background noise. But they’re definitely foreground – fortissimo, really – echoing with strong presence. Beautiful.
Behind them, ringing in subdued harmony, are the frogs’ throaty voices. Against them, in a sort of counterpoint, chirp some other insects that I can’t place. Cicadas, perhaps?
Who would know? My grandmother would. Loss swims over me. Today has been a day of feeling loss. Feeling lost. But this is different, poignant, simple. I miss my grandma.
My son is already mumbling to the first star, the one I am pretending to see up in the surprisingly bright night sky filled with clouds.
“What?” I say, my curiosity piqued by a mumble sounding suspiciously like “rabbit.” D’s wishes frequently involve pets.
“Mommy,” he says, bringing me back to this ritual, instructing me patiently in its art. “You have to whisper.”
What I want is to have my grandmother back, to sit with her listening to these night sounds.
“I want great-grandma’s spirit to be at peace,” I tell my son softly. This is as close as I can get to articulating what I really feel, which is complicated.
In high school, my best friend was trying to cheer me out of an all-too-typical black I-don’t-fit-in-anywhere mood as we were leaving my grandparents’ house.
“You might not feel like you have a home,” she said, “but you’ll always belong here.”
At the time, the thought depressed me further, oppressed me in the cloying adoration and neuroses of my grandparents forever.
Now it seems incredibly naïve. My grandparents are dead, their house and surrounding property sold. One-fourth of the resulting windfall sits in my bank account. And I still have that feeling of not belonging all too often.
Except for this: the humid night air, the rough concrete brushing against my thighs, the song bursting around me all feel like home, or as close to it as I’m likely to find in this life.
“You have to whisper. To the star.” My son's voice brings me back to the present.
His voice is paternal. One day he will be calling the shots; I won’t have a choice in the matter. “Take a few minutes to think about what you want to whisper,” he tells me.
He begins whispering softly himself in the meantime. I think, but am not sure, that I hear the words “five moths” brushing past me in the darkness.
“Okay, Mommy, now whisper to the star.”
Hesitantly I start, feeling slightly self-conscious. “I wish for the spirit of my grandmother to be at peace.”
“Now,” he says, “we have to blow them up to the star, so it will know we really want our wishes.” He takes a deep breath, purses his lips, tilts his head up as if to kiss the sky, and blows like he’s making a birthday wish.
“Like this?” I say, following suit.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly.
Afterwards, we both stand there for a moment or two, lost in our own thoughts, before turning around and heading back inside.
And I wonder if she knows I’m wishing for her. If she still exists, apart from within our minds and hearts. If it matters.
A+
“Watch out,” I call, an alarmed edge to my voice. He’s silhouetted in two circles of light rounding the corner, but he’s stopped well before the edge of the driveway. One way that four is easier than two is in the healthy respect he’s developed for the power of automobiles. Finally. With a slight amount of psychological scarring on my part nudging him there, perhaps.
I pick my own way through the front yard, overgrown grass brushing across my ankles, the ground soft and damp under my bare feet. I join him at the bottom of our steep driveway, sitting down, crossing my legs, and gazing up at the cloudy night sky.
“Look, Mommy, the first star’s out.” I don’t know how he can see it; the sky’s too hazy for me to make out any stars at all. “And when the first star is in the sky, you just have to make a wish.”
I can’t argue with such logic; besides, as I know from experience, it’s pointless to try.
I close my eyes. The ringing of crickets assaults my ears. Memory’s betrayed me; I had no idea they were so loud. My mind’s been filtering, relegating them to background noise. But they’re definitely foreground – fortissimo, really – echoing with strong presence. Beautiful.
Behind them, ringing in subdued harmony, are the frogs’ throaty voices. Against them, in a sort of counterpoint, chirp some other insects that I can’t place. Cicadas, perhaps?
Who would know? My grandmother would. Loss swims over me. Today has been a day of feeling loss. Feeling lost. But this is different, poignant, simple. I miss my grandma.
My son is already mumbling to the first star, the one I am pretending to see up in the surprisingly bright night sky filled with clouds.
“What?” I say, my curiosity piqued by a mumble sounding suspiciously like “rabbit.” D’s wishes frequently involve pets.
“Mommy,” he says, bringing me back to this ritual, instructing me patiently in its art. “You have to whisper.”
What I want is to have my grandmother back, to sit with her listening to these night sounds.
“I want great-grandma’s spirit to be at peace,” I tell my son softly. This is as close as I can get to articulating what I really feel, which is complicated.
In high school, my best friend was trying to cheer me out of an all-too-typical black I-don’t-fit-in-anywhere mood as we were leaving my grandparents’ house.
“You might not feel like you have a home,” she said, “but you’ll always belong here.”
At the time, the thought depressed me further, oppressed me in the cloying adoration and neuroses of my grandparents forever.
Now it seems incredibly naïve. My grandparents are dead, their house and surrounding property sold. One-fourth of the resulting windfall sits in my bank account. And I still have that feeling of not belonging all too often.
Except for this: the humid night air, the rough concrete brushing against my thighs, the song bursting around me all feel like home, or as close to it as I’m likely to find in this life.
“You have to whisper. To the star.” My son's voice brings me back to the present.
His voice is paternal. One day he will be calling the shots; I won’t have a choice in the matter. “Take a few minutes to think about what you want to whisper,” he tells me.
He begins whispering softly himself in the meantime. I think, but am not sure, that I hear the words “five moths” brushing past me in the darkness.
“Okay, Mommy, now whisper to the star.”
Hesitantly I start, feeling slightly self-conscious. “I wish for the spirit of my grandmother to be at peace.”
“Now,” he says, “we have to blow them up to the star, so it will know we really want our wishes.” He takes a deep breath, purses his lips, tilts his head up as if to kiss the sky, and blows like he’s making a birthday wish.
“Like this?” I say, following suit.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly.
Afterwards, we both stand there for a moment or two, lost in our own thoughts, before turning around and heading back inside.
And I wonder if she knows I’m wishing for her. If she still exists, apart from within our minds and hearts. If it matters.
A+
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-22 06:15 am (UTC)Starbright
Date: 2004-06-22 06:46 am (UTC)You are blessed,
Bird
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-22 01:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-11 02:59 pm (UTC)I miss him and my Grandma though she is still alive. I wish Ava would have had the chance to know them better.
Thanks for that story. I love your writing.
Michelle/Ava's Mom
Here - this spell checked version should be better...
Date: 2005-08-11 03:07 pm (UTC)I miss him and my Grandma though she is still alive. I wish Ava would have had the chance to know them better.
Thanks for that story. I love your writing.
Michelle/Ava's Mom