Carry the Stars

She pulled me aside in her parent’s kitchen. Red blender, red pots, red pans. Salt shaker shaped like a cow. She lifted her leg to reveal a constellation of tiny black stars tattooed on her ankle. The stars were her brand.

“My parents will kill me if they find out.”

I grinned and replied - “Who am I to tell?”

(I used to think she was smart, carrying the stars everywhere she went, and anyone could see she was a constellation if they just looked down.)

And this is what I have left of her a decade after she ditched me. Memories inside larger memories inside colors, inside both of us, other people rolling in and out as side characters, some more memorable than others.

Today she is a living image I sometimes stumble across. I can just see her changing diapers and tending to hunky hubby and baking and working and climbing that glowing ladder with her 5 arms. She looks proud.

She has nothing I want now. And it’s just so funny how we each do, and love, and bear what the other one can’t.

As for stars, well, they aren’t my type of accessory. And maybe that’s the difference.