When I Look at the Stars
Nose to the cool glass, one out of a hundred probably, all shaped the same with three different layers. If it wasn’t so dark, I could probably see the frost that gathers at the bottom near that tiny hole that most people overlook; but not me. That’s always where my face goes, directly to the window–large enough that it fits my whole head, but small enough that it’s solely mine.
Cities and towns and villages light up below me as we pass over those fly over states. Their light, warm and gold, reminds me that civilization is still standing strong while I’m so far away.
The amber oddly shaped squares below me aren’t the object of my attention though. Out across the horizon are the pinpoints of white light that at 36000 feet and 566 miles per hour seem to be so much more significant now that we’re in their territory. They freckle and become visible with every straining blink; if only the lights in this flying metal contraption would all go off.
As I peer out the window still, even though I should be sleeping, my headphones touch the side of the plastic wall and a slight static pulses along with the country music that keeps me sane and shut off from the rest of the passengers just waiting to land. This static defines me now. I am static. Caught in between sleep and awake, between night and day, between timezones and homes, between love and hurt, between staring at the stars and being a part of them.
Obviously my thoughts are with you as the stars trail with me, never fading out gently like the towns blinking below as we cross Kansas and into Missouri. Only 385 miles to go, or better translated into exactly and hour by now.
But then, once that hour slowly ticks by, I’m farther away from everything I want, and yet closer to the stars. Isn’t that strange how it always works like that? Maybe that old crock that deemed when one door closes then another opens was right.
The stars are my company tonight. Not the businessman who is ten years too old to understand his table or the surfer sitting next to him, beard to his chest. It’s not the girls with green acrylic nails, watching MTV while pretending to sleep and take pictures with their iPhones even though it’s pitch black out in front of me or the ironically rude flight attendant. No it’s none of them. Since you can’t be here, hogging the seat beside me, pointing out different GoPro videos and holding me when my ears explode, I’ll turn my solace to the glimmering lights that I have so many times before.
Maybe they’re the same on the other side of the world, maybe we’ll be looking at the same ones on the night I take another metal flying machine over the warm Atlantic and into a cold, bustling city with backwards drivers and “Look!” signs. That time is coming quicker than everyone else thinks, in just five months and about a week, I’ll be going over there, being a jetsetter.
I shouldn’t be upset, the darkness does that to me I supposed. Because you’ll be there right? So will the businessmen and tablets, the lost surfers, the girls in expensive clothes and nails, the rude and tired flight attendants after an eleven hour ride. So will the stars.
So will the stars.
Shelby Lueders 