Short stories

Stars

Sometimes, at night, when worry burrows and festers in my stomach, I go and see the stars.

Its not a long trip; grab my soft, green blanket, faded from wear, unlatch my windows, dislocate my bug screen, and climb out of my window well.  

From there, I walk up the path that snakes behind the neighborhood, stalk through the tall grass, and once I reach the top, I lay my blanket down over the rough branches and crab grass that has made its home at the top of the mount. 

At times I wonder if it grew there so it could see the stars, too. 

With thick trees blocking porch lights, and very few cars driving along the main roads, it takes some convincing to bring one back to reality, that you aren't the only one still left on earth.

I sometimes forget this as the soft symphony of the night envelops me. 

Crickets chirp, the soft sound of an animal calling in the distance, and the rustle of branches and vegetation join the chorus of the night.

Even with all the noise around, what really catches my eye is the stars. 

Although I could stare at the dark silhouette of the young pine trees dancing in the wind, preforming to the tune of a hundred sounds for just as long, the stars are the main attraction when you plan to go star gazing. 

I lay on my back, one hand behind my head, and one outstretched, trying to take a handful of the night. 

They seem close enough to touch, like I could gather just a pocketful of sky and use it to paint galaxies across my wall.

The brightest ones beg your attention, calling out for you to stare at them the longest, while the more dim are quietly intriguing. 

I once heard that when you die, you become a star. I wonder who's lives deserve to call out as the brightest, while others simply abide in the background.  

At the end I have trouble prying myself from my space, my own little pocket in time, to return to the mundane.

I think I have figured out why I treasure my sanctuary so deeply.

The stars remind me of your eyes.