as a little boy he would lay down in the grass just as the sun was setting in the horizon and the stars would begin to appear. he would desperately try to count them as they appeared but would soon lose track of the ones he had counted and any new ones that kept appearing.
his big soft brown eyes and soft pitch black hair complimented very well the stillness, the gentleness, the darkness that encompasses something as drastic as day turning to night. something as drastic as a little boy laying in the grass watching the day turn to night.
ants would climb over his wool sweater and get entangled within the twists and turns of the wool fibers, just like his thoughts amongst the stars, his dreams broken sometimes by a shooting star, to only regroup and begin anew as the passing star would slowly fade and reach other parts of the nightsky. compatriots of the ants that were stuck struggled mightily to free their comrades. his eyes would swell with tears, sometimes they would fall and sometimes his eyelashes were long enough to hold them in. all too often a single tear would spiral down his cheek and into the grass next to him. this tear cried as it fell and released other tears that also cried that a passer-by in the morning mistook for morning dew. but this dew was different, it was full of hopes and dreams, this dew was the little boys. he laid in amazement that night, neverminding the darkness and cold that the night brought, he became the stillness and closed his eyes. he created his own night sky when he closed his eyes, his thoughts and ideas the stars, life's happenings were the shooting stars that broke his dreams apart. nevertheless he laid in the grass every night as the sun descended, he did this because he knew he could recreate what he would see when the stars would come out to greet him, if he just closed his eyes.
sooner or later his mother would call out to him from the backdoor. the familiar voice of his mother, his heart leapt with joy. he jumped high in the air almost touching the stars with excitement, his sweater and pants, the back of his head moist from the grass, the grass moist from his hopes and dreams. he laid under the covers and his mother would kiss his forehead goodnight and whisper in the tenderness that is the love of a mother for her child that everything would be okay and that she loved him dearly. with that he would close his eyes again and descend into an even deeper slumber. he knew everything would be okay. . . .
when he awoke the next morning he felt different. pain in his joints, his lips felt dry and partched, his muscles felt stiff. his skin loose and battered. wanting to run into the kitchen and hug his mother and jump into the arms of his father, he tried but couldn't. he felt slow and aged. getting up very slowly and carefully he made his way to a simple mirror that was set against the off-white colored wall. gazing into the mirror he was startled and looked away to only look again in disbelief. in astonishment. in front of this mirror stood an old man, hair as white and pure as winters first snowfall, winkles like dried up stream and river beds. his eyes still a soft brown but much dimmer now. where had the time gone ? where had he gone ? he called out to this mother and father and no reply was heard. he tried again to no avail, turning to make his way to the hallway, he saw a picture of them on his nightstand. a picture of his parents holding each other with the joyous of smiles with a caption that read, "together in life, together in death, together forever".
that evening, as in so many before then, as the sun made its way past the dried up elms and oak trees that canvassed the horizon, he made his way to the backyard. He remembered how easy it was to get there before, the trip now involved the pain of rickety bones and used-up joints.
as he laid down in the grass he was perplexed at how wet the grass was, as if the morning dew had come a bit too early, or as if a little boy had recently cried amongst the sharp blades of grass.
Nevertheless, he watched as the day turned to night and the stars came out to greet him.
he once again attached his hopes and dreams to the stars to only have them broken by a shooting star. he grinned for an instance as a tear trickled ever so slowly and he closed his eyes. Recreating the nightsky he had just seen. and he smiled and he smiled.
the next morning a passer-by noticed this old man laying motionless in the grass, strangely right next to two tombstones that read, "together in life, together in death, together forever".
he was buried there alongside those two tombstones in the backyard of that old weathered house that creeked and moaned whenever the wind picked up. a very small and short funeral was held under a grey cloudy sky, a slight drizzle tickeled the noses of all those that attended. most were complete strangers but had kind hearts, exchanged a few words and were soon gone.
if you ever walk in the grass barefoot in the morning and feel the wetness that we call morning dew, be careful, for that morning dew might actually be the hopes and dreams cried out by a little boy, an old man that had laid down the night before to recreate the nightsky.