Dust Trails

We drive. The radio crackles as the downtown scene fades. The streetlights illuminate less of the road ahead and the engine revs. Though the road is quite dark and empty, I've been here before. It's pretty during the autumn sunlight. The leaves glisten with their orange and gold rot as the cars pass too quickly. Under the harvest moon, the streaks of seasonal shade create a tunnel of dim, colorful light. The ride is hopeful.

The trees turn into dark empty fields. The fields spring houses. The houses sit as empty and dark as the fields. He turns off the crackling radio. In the distance I can waves crashing. The car slows and he pulls into a desolate lot. The world is dark around us. We're afraid to speak.

A cool fall evening in October is the best time to visit the beach. The tourists are all home far away from here. The sand is cool and the waves are serene. The bar lights are off and the residents are at rest. Above, the night sky perpetuates.

He says that is for why we came. The only lights around are the ones that gleam over our heads. We grab some blankets out of the trunk. The closure of the hatch seems to echo through the silence. It also sparks our conversation. Suddenly it feels like an inferno. We cannot stop talking. For a moment I try to pause and trace our words. The map is all over the place, some circles too.

We walk. We talk. We leave our footprints in the sands. We climb the rocks. The rocks, or boulders, are cool and stable. I am thankful for the blankets. They create a warm barrier over the unwavering rock we sit upon. The dialogue is not interrupted by the harmonized movements we create. Sitting together looking out on the ocean waves, we absorb the light of the moon rising on the horizon.

As the moon reaches its altitude, our conversation reaches its depths. We lie back on the soft fleece blanket and stare at the stars. They blink and burn. Our words stretch to a lull and I am mesmerized my by the sky above me. My mind escapes into it.

In the silence we lay. The stars stole our words and we are transfixed. The coolness of the rock radiates through the blanket. The crash of the waves against the rocks reminds me that it is all just water droplets. And the sky above continues to twinkle.

But what are they really? Scientists tell me they are just gases burning. Gases are not even tangible. Reach for the stars, but keep reaching because you will never get to touch one. Reach and if you do get one, you will be burnt to a crisp. I begin to ponder this further and deeper. I feel removed from the warm body next to me, from the cool rock and warm blanket. I am floating in the blanket of the sky.

And a blur whizzes by. I am caught by surprise and in an instant I am replaced. The rock grounds me. I blink to see if I can find the blur again. It's gone. I realize the moment that just passed. I found my first shooting star. Its glaze chasing the star was just a trail of dust. I wish on the dust.

A wish on the dust of a falling star is a wish to fall apart. A wish on the sparkling trail it leaves behind is a wish on the past. The dust, the trail are all pieces of what once was. It is mere evidence of the death of a star. I realize my own wish would involve collecting that dust and putting it back together. Let it sparkle in its own right. The wish vanishes from my heart like the trail from the star. Gone.

The waves continue to collide with the jetty. The wind continues to bellow. He continues to lie next to me and we fit together. He is my pile of dust.