The Stars' Keeper

Record Three

Within an hour my bones are aching. The pendulum motion of sweeping the stray dust used to be mundane. Now it is meticulous and a strain on my joints. I stick to the foyer, despite the care needed in the far recesses of the temple space. Jar upon jar the stardust stacks up. I can no longer tell where the tower's top rests. Near the archway to the Eastern link is a cushion I placed many years ago for the previous Keeper's old knees – and now my own.

I struggle to the ground and cringe at the lack of stuffing with the pillow case. There is no longer time to fix the little things, the far away things. My head rests against the familiar column. It's no different from the others in style, colour, or shape. The direction it goes may be of a different story but that is of no concern other than destination.

It is a pristine eggshell white that hasn't yellowed over the years of being unattended. The molded designs on the rim touching wall to wall are delicate string-thin leaves in great detail that the veins of each half of a leaf is carefully drawn out and ended with pea sized berries nestled center, a dainty x marked somewhere on the body. The pattern continues all around with the exception of the top. Out of the curling vines and feathery leaves a couple hands come out like the spread wings of an angel. They press up against an orb, hollowed out to host a little light. It was never a question of mine as to how such a magical act was pulled off.

Maybe it's the direction, the way the cosmos can be seen all over without the trenches of shelves in sight. Overhead I can see the stars. They glow for each constellation that lives far apart from this temple. Each star sleeps in a cloud of colours – fuchsia, cerulean, mango, and emerald. It stretches over eternity longer than the span of a lifetime and sometimes I think I shall wake up from a slumber to find that the galaxies and forever have left me.

Like a decorative tree in the center the unlogged stardust shine bright like all the new coming jars do. When ears are strained, they can be heard humming in a bass and sometimes treble note. One harmonious choir in the center of the temple as if worshipping a higher power that brought them here. I watch them through a blur of glass and glimmer till my eyes dry then water.

Time seems to turn blank, the way it would when eyes shut tight. The haze engulfs me for longer than I can account for. Then suddenly, almost in the form of an unexpected burn, it is like I've relearned to breathe. I am stunned by bewilderment for a moment. To what was it that I was awakened to?

And there I see the cause of disturbance, with great distress, the loss of hundreds of jars of stardust. The tower has toppled like an old and weary structure. Dust spills on the floor like sand from an hourglass. Piling and expanding until it reaches close to me. Shards of glass peek out like rocks in a desert. Blame upon my own weariness, my old bones, had I not put the chore off there would have been no waste to the spilt ashes. As if the many broken down bodies are screaming the stardust is losing glow rapidly.

I rise to my feet to begin the regretful job.

But some of the dust didn't stop glowing and what is left seems to be crawling as best as it can towards a center point in the mound. To my dismay a couple shimmering hands dig themselves out of the hill of dust and a couple blinding eyes that immediately set sight on me after that.

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