Shooting Stars

They pepper me with questions on the way to the office. When it is just the three of us we can lean into our survivors’ solidarity—

How do birds fly? What are shooting stars?

I want to say you are shooting stars, bright bits of light in night sky, not stars, but bits of iron and silicate broken from the mother rock

Contrails in the inky sky

What emperors wear

In my mind I have a picture of my maternal grandmother, mother of 11 children, flawed but beautiful

She looked like a grandmother—skin settling in, soft. Her hair went gray early but her face was always delicate and lovely

I am a grandmother now, and many of the adjectives apply to me—soft, round, wrinkled.

Fat to be blunt.

I am fine with all of this. I made a deal with myself years ago that I would see my aging process as an experiment in entropy—eventually gravity will have its due with us all.

I went on a deep dive this morning looking at a host of cosmetic procedures—surgeries, lasers, radio waves, deep tissue this or that—all promising to make a body toned, sculpted, and smooth.

I don’t really believe most of them work, but even if I did, I don’t believe they are for me.

I am supposed to “know God and glorify Him forever.”

The phone booth at the end of the world

The words spill out about a horror movie you showed them and I say excuse me girls I need to make a brief phone call

And walk to the phone booth at the end of the world—

Just a couple of Dixie cups and grubby yarn but a good enough connection for me to


I am so angry at you! How could you have picked monsters instead of little girls? How could you have let them see all those scary movies? The too-real monster men? The empty ache for an awake mama?

I am so pissed at you

No wonder they have been angry too