by J. O'Shields II
In that moment, if you'll excuse my wandering nature, I feel a familiar presence.
No. I should say, I feel so many fingertips of memory grazing my mind that I am unable to resist their lure. They tug me in opposing directions bidding me to pause with them and relive a moment I should never have forgotten. I let them pull and urge as they will while I set my sight upon the same star as I have watched every night I was able since my eighth year.
Some nights I am convinced it loops and dips knowing I watch closely. Other times, I remind myself that I am an adult and it is only light reflected, or refracted, to create an illusion I am too eager to succumb to. Even now, in the haze of memory and comforting redundancy, I am unsure if I have swayed or my twinkling cohort has learned a new step.
I lean forward uncaring if I tip and stumble. My weight comes to rest on a pine post which calls me Maker and I hold my breath. If it moves again I'll know it wasn't me. I'll believe myself when I say I was noticed by something I cannot name, do not pity, and have not known. My days would be shadows if darkness could not love me.