Twinkling Things

I wish I could paint the moon. Paint the moon pretty that is. I saw it on my drive home tonight, high up there hanging from it's perch, an eerie yellow...almost as if a dust cloud were covering it, making it sepia-toned and antiquish. Dark clouds surrounded it, dark clouds spread thin, purple tinted, shadowed and grey. It was beautiful.

I felt smaller than what I already do...
More incapable than what I already am...

I want to go to the moon. I know I joke about going to the moon but I really want to go...not so much to the moon as to it's home, up there, in the sky, far away, so dark and mysterious...let me go. I want to see where it lives, where it hangs it's top-hat in the sky, I want to meet it's twinkling neighbors, those twinkling lights that ride on wings of splendor, those burning embers that shoot across the sky.

I want to capture star dust in my old coke bottles that I boxed up and gave away...the ones that sat on my windowsill in my Pine Mountain home...and collected dust and around one's blown glass neck there hung a corsage...a pink carnation from my junior prom...I want to sprinkle the star dust all over my room and then watch it twinkle when I turn off the lights...my own special universe before me. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so small...

I would feel accomlished.
And worthy of my keep here on this earth...this earth...this tiny planet amidst a gazillion galaxies, black holes and all...

But this isn't really my home...no...not really. I am but a sojourner...just passing through. You won't remember me waving good-bye to you when angels come to take me away, you won't remember my trip to the moon or the star dust that I collected. You'll box up my photo's and bottle my star-dust and hide them in a dark, musty basement...in the corner where all the other forgotten's of your life are hidden..."She was just a temporary tenant," you'll say.

But it's ok.
Because I don't know if I'll miss you...
Maybe I will but the anticipation of seeing HIM...
It makes all the rigors of this life a little less rigorous, knowing that this life, as small, as incapable, as unaccomplished that this life is...He will still welcome me. Me. Jamie...plain Jane and all...all of me, from the tiniest hint of brilliance all the way down to the dirtiest speck of...bleh.

I see the moon from a distance...if I could hear it, I bet it would sound like a violin or a cello...With my finger,I trace the outline of it's imperfect sphere and I imagine myself going up, up, up...higher than any plane...than any star would wish to fall from...I just want to touch it, to get close enough and touch it's etheral face. It would remember me...it would remember me from a past dream, and we would talk like old friends...and he would allow me to bask in the light of his brilliance.

I admire the sky.
Appreciate it's depth, it's beauty.
It brings me pleasure...and comfort...it keeps me dreaming.

When I die, let me be your star, that one little star that hung from a simple tack, dangling on simple white kite string, high up in the not-so-simple sky next to the not-so-simple moon...that one little star that fell down to the earth and slowly faded away.

Turn me into star dust, would you...