Sea of Stars

Stars.

Not the lights that illuminate the night, nor the people who entrance us with their music or pretend. But they are stars, nonetheless. Tiny golden stars on a sea blue surface. Perfectly symmetrical shapes that surround obsidian centers. They are complex, though. Not simple, five-point shapes that one might learn to draw in the early years of grade school, but miniscule and intricately designed shapes with gentle dips and sharp points.

They twinkle sometimes: when the morning sun dawns, and the world has yet to set in; in moments of joy or excitement; when the world opts to be good and kind. The stars seem to dance across their water-stained surface, as if beginning to tell a fantastic story. If one listens closely, they might hear the serene melody that accompanies the starry dance. The sea sparkles as the stars frolic, both in harmony, each bringing the other life.

But the water does not stay brilliant and peaceful long. And when the waves start to crash, the sparkle fades from the water, and the twinkle from the stars. The story they danced turns a much darker shade as the light is drained from the golden stars. The clouds move over the sea, and the stars become nearly invisible through a thick grey fog. It stays that way for a long time. Their sparkle is lost; their outline barely visible; waiting gloomily for the day when they will be granted the chance to shine again. The storm lasts longer than any storm ever should, and the story the stars tell remains melancholic. Heartbreaking.

Very few are able to see the stars. But very few try. Even those who can see the tiny golden stars can rarely see the story that they tell.

I can see the stars. I know the story.

And the stars in my sister’s sea blue eyes should not have to tell the story that they do.