A Way Strewn With Stars
- solidfoodpress
- 6 days ago
- 2 min read
by Nicole Rollender
Snow, yet a train’s moan through the evergreens—a sudden sad drop in my heart,
carrying the scent of burning cedar.
My son says stars’ light travels millions of years to reach Earth—some, already dead,
continue hurtling shadow light through space.
No matter how long I live in a town, I still say, “I’m not from here.”
But no one asks, “Where are you from?”
If you aren’t happy, do you follow the next star to another paradise?
Every dusk, my daughter photographs sunset from the same spot—apricot, crimson,
gloam violet — painted clouds, the slow gleam of stars.
Some days, living is hard. But leaving is harder when you’re a mother.
I anchor my feet to the world, yet long to lift away, traveling in a homeward ship.
An unfurling night flower: The unrelenting itch of unlocking the body and stepping out.
New stars — even galaxies — spring from the remnants of the dead.
We named our baby parrot Star. After she died, we cremated her into stardust.
“You won’t get to heaven without suffering,” my dead grandmother told me.
“But you’ll live forever.”
In the beginning, God created undying light.
A mirage, a chasm of sparkling waters I look into, my grandmother’s face shimmering.
Hundreds of years ago, a saint looking up at the heavens said, “Someday, these
will be the stars I walk on.”
We buried Star’s bird wings of ash in our garden.
Someday, God, may I fold my arms, leaving as feathered light.
