Written in the stars

I've never been a good sleeper. It doesn't surprise me when I wake in the middle of the night. The tip of my nose feels frosty. I bet I could see my breath if my eyes would open. The dark around me is coming into focus. As much as the dark can, at least. The black opens ups to the stars. I can pick out the Big Dipper. The rest of the constellations are lost to me. Some shine brighter than others. But the snakes and frogs glow dimly...

I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.

This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.

My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?

Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.

My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...

They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.

Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.

Middle of the night memories.

Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.

I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.

I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.

Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.

It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.