A prompt/writing entry a day |
Upended bowl. Night lights spill from the hands of the gods. Grandfather said stars were the eyes of the gods. I've always wondered, if when the sky is covered in a shroud of clouds if the gods are blinded, unable to see me do something wrong. Father points out certain pricks in ebony canopy, says men draw lines with bits of chalk from the beach to create star illusions, pictures in the night. He must be right as I can see a white cloud midst the stars where chalk dust has blown the drawing away. Grandmother says I must learn the stars, memorize their homes in the different seasons; Ffor if I know where they should be, I will always know where I am. Mother tells me that the world is rearranging, that we must change, adapt to keep up. She tells me I will go far away someday. Yet no matter how far I may walk, or alone I might feel, what is real is that all I need to do is look up and know we see the same sky. I say that the elders know more than I, but I think the chalk in the sky is what's left of star-blown lines cast from wanderers to the stars and then home to ones left behind. 218 |