Falling Stars

 

 

At my auntie’s summer cottage

When the moon was black

The purple sky blazed with stars.

Star-gazing was a ritual.

‘Look!’ cried my aunt one night as we lay

On the cool stones by the lazy water,

‘There’s a falling star! And another!’

She gasped like a child in delight,

Pressing her fingers to her throat.

‘We must make a wish.’

 

‘Oh,’ I remarked smoothly,

‘Those aren’t stars at all.

They’re just huge chunks of space rock

Sizzling  through Earth’s atmosphere.’

There was a tight silence.

Then she turned on me abruptly:

‘I said it was a falling star!’

She snapped fiercely

With her lips pinched grey

And her hostile eyes glittering.

 

‘Yes,’ I answered at once,

‘And I’m going to make a wish too.’

I reached out and clasped her

Reluctant fingers in mine.

‘Let’s make our wishes together.’

We turned back to the brilliant sky:

‘Wish I may - wish I might -

Get the wish I wish tonight.’

I heard her whispering beside me,

But I had spoiled the moment.

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas

CBT