In the midnight blue sky, there is no pestilence or disease, only the brief flash of a dying star. There are no planes, only stars and the waxing moon. Somewhere high in the universe beyond my sight a cosmos is being born. I wrap my old blue sweater tighter still, giving myself a hug pretending it is my long passed mother. I am grateful she is gone and safe from this madness, for she lived through so much. She spoke often of the great depression and I listened. She told of hard and lean times, but there was always a pot of beans simmering on the stove to feed anyone who may be hungry. It’s because of these talks that my pantry is always well stocked. All those conversations all those years ago, did she know she was preparing me for this?
celestial night sky
each twinkling star a prayer
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