Winter Star

The eyes are the window to the soul.1

So many have said this to me; these words that repeat on their own accord. So many have contributed their wisdom in the form of the same clichéd sayings, wisdom that they themselves could not have comprehended. Had any of them seen a person’s soul through the eyes? I would bet not. But my eyes at this moment have an open door, though they are blocked in the material sense. The tears glisten in my eyes, an endless myriad of colors reflected from the green that is my natural color. Even now the rage that had just filled me with anger had subsided to a piercing ache, stabbing at every sob. 2

I walk to the swingset in my backyard. I remember many hours, days spent in this plot of simple grass. How many wonders lay in the steepened slope rising to my house, the old climbing trees standing proudly in the corner. The swingset was in the middle of things, always a haven in my endless outdoor adventures, positioned in between the hill and the trees and the fence. Now I go, to sooth my savage breast, and to rid my mind of clichés. 3

As I stare to the heavens, today obscured by clouds, I let the tears roll, unchecked down my cheeks. The cool, December chill caresses them, freezing them before they reach my nose. And as I am staring up I see it-- a single break in the clouds; a single silver lining of the moon. And seeing this miraculous sight, I pause, and hold my breath as the cloud is caressed back into place. Many minutes I wait there, holding my breath for the star to come back. This had been no star I’d known before, but a galaxy, maybe, a mindless jumble of gasses and matter. And when the star does not return, I cry again, for my loss this time, and stand to go inside.4

The eyes are the window to the soul, they say,5

But mine are blocked, I fear,6

From being seen and seeing.7

Star, I have seen you, and I’ll never let you go. I wish with all my heart…8