The night you shared your shooting stars

More and more I am convinced, the gospel is far from a destination, like road maps, but rather shooting stars one waits anxiously to fall within reach. You were a natural born star catcher; and even against everyones' warnings, knew you needed to pursue darker skies, filling your jar across the Rocky Mountains, to Washington State, and up three finger tips of the Old British Empire.

I remember when you made it home; we drove out behind the old high school, and sat on the tool box of the red truck. You showed me how you made your pockets deep, to fit every star you carried, even opening up space in your shoes beneath the arches of your feet. You said one jar was all we needed, lest appearance become our true love; that we didn't want to be the folk to wear the shiniest as necklaces, and keep the rest against the bathroom mirror, or in a fish tank or something; and that most people would never in their lifetime know stars were never meant to be ornaments, never solely for our keeping.

I faked understanding, but floundered for solid ground amidst our back and forth, knowing full well I'd only in my lifetime pocketed a handful of stars, two of which you'd manage to express mail from Whale's Cay, before I left that summer, but were now buried in a box beneath others, labeled with black sharpie, 'stuff', with no foresight for their practicality.

You said, we catch to give, and the need is great. That in giving, we brought the heavens down.

I knew then, what people saw in you that I never could possess; why your eyes always caught sight of and pursued what mine did not, despite staring into the same sky. Your saw a kingdom here, meanwhile my eyes were stuck in a second grade daydream.

You filled your jar a time and a half that night and, noticing the emptiness of mine, spilled each one into my jar, saying not to mention it.