I have yet to see a shooting star, here, in this most beautiful place. Believe me, I have tried. So many years of standing out beyond the porch door looking up in search of one, a dart of light, a graceful zoom into the abyss of the heavens.
I have wished it. Begged it to happen. Nights when the heavens fell down onto the house, when the stars were almost touchable, when I thought I could reach out, grasp one, put it into my pocket and carry it around like a secret trophy. I froze out there, hidden in the eaves, peering out, pleading for a drama, a result, a cry to emit from my mute lips.
Still, it never happened. Still, I tried. I watched. I observed. I gauged the time. I thought that believing would make the shooting star appear.
Once upon a time, I ate shooting stars for dinner. I sprinkled them on my plate like parmesan cheese. They zoomed into my glaxy as effortlessly as whipping cream. All I had to do was look up and there they were, disco lights just for me. I wondered if my eyes had closed a little when I did not see them anymore. If the glaze of life and its cynical ways had voided me of such wonders. I tried to open my eyes further but the web of skin limited the attempt.
Eyes can grow heavy with age. Burdened. Limited. I know that. No matter how I try, how I make the attempt to stretch them into a bigger picture, the lid grows heavy, the cornea slightly blemishes, the effort all too hard.
Maybe the days of shooting stars have passed me now. The days in New Mexico when each one was more exhilarating than the last. When I shouted out loud,' who needs fireworks '. When the sky touched my face and I felt the heat of movement in my bones.
Now I stand and watch without expectation. I have given up in a way but still I wait. Because deep down noone ever gives up. And, I know that someday I will catch one more shooting star, one more stab at a belief in something bigger out there, one more journey that disintegrates into something else, adds to the splendour of life, of it all.