She sang and the desert cheered.
She lifts her eyes up to the hills, listening to hear a sound. “Everything comes alive at night,” she says.
Everything that is alive is alive all the time, but at night, their voices cease in a single area of the earth. Restless talking is replaced with right-now-quick-now singing birds, wrestling leaves, dancing trees and the inexpressible truth of make-believe; a dreaming girl awake with stars. Perhaps it was her smile, or maybe it was just the dusty moment.
Stardust only settles for a season.
My eyes were heavy from gazing up at the stars encompassing our existence. In that moment I was fully awake like she was fully awake. I’ve come to terms with the unfortunate reality that most people are sleepwalkers. In her mind, everyone is shining like a stone set ablaze by fire. There are some who try to become like her and yet she has always been this way. She is described as a lamplighter or a Monday morning kiss. She is yesterday and tomorrow; her mind is eternity.
“Everything comes alive at night,” she says.
I half shook my head as if coming out of some kind of trance. I turned around to see her sitting crisscross with her hands at her sides. She was bracing the earth. Maybe she was nervous the grass was a disguised UFO that might take her away forever… Or perhaps she was simply tuned in to all that was around her. Her excitement often took on a strange identity, committing to an abnormal amount of deep breaths and whispered shrieks.
I walked over to her and crouched down in front of her. I had words ready on tongue, until she lifted her hand with her pointer finger reaching upward, and pressed it against her lips. Then she blew. There was no sound but I got the message. She is a teacher, and when the kids get loud, she gets quiet. She’ll breathe in real deep and raise her hand up to her lips, same as she did that night, and then she’ll let out a silent breath. Instead of the usual Shushing sound that most adults make, she kicks the noise with speechless techniques. She learned it from an old friend, one she mentions quite often actually, and yet I still don’t know his name.
She’s never been one for names. She believes names are forever changing, and that one name could not rightly suit a person their entire life. She doesn’t let her name define her, instead, she defines her name. One day she is Flower, another day she is Forever, or Wings when she believes she can fly. She is not confined to society like the rest of us and I guess that is why I call her Bendable Light.