When Grandma died, you told me she became an angel. If I wanted to see her, I just had to look up to the stars. I believed you until my science teacher said stars were simply burning balls of gas.
At thirty, I moved to the city where stars were invisible.
“Come home,” you said.
I ignored you.
“I miss you,” you said.
I stopped returning your calls.
Then you were gone, and I was laying on the grass while my sisters cleaned out your house.
Cirrus clouds flowed across the night sky revealing your ghostly form, illuminated by the stars.
Beautiful.
A tender story of regret. This is a winner!
Thank you!
Beautiful indeed.
Don’t those scientists just ALWAYS strip the romance from life. Sad and lovely.
Inspiring, reminding me sometimes we don’t get another chance. Going out to see my Mom today ?
Very beautiful imagery, but sad.
I love how efficiently you tell a familiar story in fresh, crisp language and imagery. This rings true!