counting tealights like petals
21 November 2004
6:45 p.m.
I'm watching the tealights in my room go out one by one, like stars fading in a rising dawn.
Twenty becomes fifteen becomes five.
And each one, I realize, could hold a wish.
The last time I wished on a star was last week, an evening dark and cold, walking home from the subway station.
One solitary star in the falling night. Lonely and clear. Distant.
A kindred spirit above my unhurried steps.
And under my breath, came the wish--a question more than a dream--a thought more than a desire.
I am just tired, I said to the star.
And the star, in its ever-present objectivity remained unwaivering.
It's not romance, after all, but physics.
And yet, these tealights, first twenty and then fifteen, and now five. Now two.
They could be wishes if I were to shut my eyes and hold my breath and find a rhyme from childhood about believing.
But physics, even when the dawn is rising and the more distant stars are obliterated by the too-close sun, is more comforting than believing in the invisible magic of romance.