Hopeful Silence

From the archives of living and working on a 7-mile long, 4-mile wide island in New England.

We lounged atop the bluffs in companionable silence.

Floating through the grasses we reached the knoll, to lie back, and inhale the shining stars.

A family of crickets sang, waves tossed below, and the faint shift of wind turbines melted together in the background.

Jupiter was the brightest, and teased the North Star.

There was peace and thoughts of all the times before.

Some of us recalled racing at night through woods on the west side, others of us spent late evenings gathering at the gazebo, and we all reminisced the people that made us cherish the small things on this little island.

An overcast of clouds drifted through the galaxy, hiding the figures of constellations above us.

Shooting stars were sought after, we even questioned whether the velocity or hint of orange in its beam, measured the degree of wish we could be granted.

I distinctly remember stating, in a trance of sorts, that I wished to be the one propelling shooting stars in my afterlife.

I wanted to enact a beacon of hope.

To give others something to believe in.

To not just wish, but feel chosen by its brilliance.

Its significance.

To remain hopeful, and find joy once again.