It has been awhile since I posted, especially any writing, and I apologize for that. I’m sure I could make all sorts of excuses, but I hate doing that, so I won’t. Anyway, I promised in my Notebook section to post my lyric essay when I finished revising it (which I think I have), so now I am. I want to say thanks to my workshop group (who will likely never read this), and to my teacher Kati (who might) for helping me with some of the more stubborn lines in the piece. In all I’m quite fond of it. So, without further ado:
The Silence Between Stars and
There are certain things which stand out as impossible to me now. The way the seats lined the wall, all the way around the back. The lack of other passengers on a flight across the Pacific. The quiet. I remember my mother’s whispers, though not her words, and nothing else. No questioning stewardess, no engine’s roar. Nothing but…
The black of ocean below, broken here –and there- by the pale white crests of waves. And the endless, endless, endless blue-black of the sky, its infinity spattered by sparkling specks beyond number. My young mind stood still in awe of a vastness I could not comprehend. Forever above and beyond us stretched a miracle of light and shadow, and below the swells and surges of the unknowable sea, while we hung suspended in a cylinder of near-magic, surrounded by a silence made of a world muted (in memory) by beauty.
Though I could not have stood for long upon that impossible seat beside my mother, face pressed to peer past the glass, the moment looms large in my mind: shading my youngest years beneath a starry canopy of deepest night and drowning out everything else until the birth of my brother nearly a year later.
We two lay on our backs, against cold concrete, hands clasped in comfort, eyes fixed on the multi-hued dome of light above. The querulous glow of the city -behind and below- shaded the sky in pinks and purples, obscuring the pale pinpricks for which our sight strove. Though I had a long made habit of watching the sky in the hours between dusk and dawn, she had never stopped to look up from the ground which bound her. And though what we had was not to last, the moments we spent there, gazing upward and forward, go on (in memory) forever.
Surely the sounds of the city reached our love-struck ears, straining as they were for the warning of steps coming up the hill, that we might shield ourselves from the disappointed stares of our parents had they seen. And surely we spoke, for we chattered incessantly in every other moment of our time together. Even in those tense moments when she stole through the basement window of her father’s house, and hurried to the open door of my idling car, we whispered and laughed together. But…
Though I recall the softness of her hand in mine, and the warmth in her lips and eyes, I hear no sound. Ensconced in our private world of light and love, all is calm and quiet, sure and silent, with no hint of the tumult to come.
The four of us stood at the edge of the lake, marveling in the perfect stillness of its surface. It was our second night away from civilization, miles and miles deep into the wilderness of the Uinta range. Weary though we were, after hiking with our subsistence on our backs and a day of ravenously reveling in the freedom of the mountains, we were wide awake in that moment.
The sky above, unmarred by man’s intrusive glow, was so very crowded with little lights that the blue-black of night became a soft and soothing purple-blue. Blue like ocean depths, purple as mythical mountains majesty. Below and before us the perfect black stillness of the lake reflected back the glory of the stars above. Points of light etched in nature’s glass a clear path across the night, and seeing this I understood the wonder with which the ancients so often termed our galaxy a road through the heavens. And…
No sound broke that perfect moment. We marveled in unison, and no one of us spoke a word. No cars or trains or other people assaulted our solitude with sound. No animals called in the night, nor crickets chirped their delight. No wind whispered through the trees to mar the mirror surface before us, as though the world understood our awe and wished to share in it for a moment. We share it still (in memory).