Falling Sparks

A small child sat quietly in a seat with his knees drawn up to his chin. No one sat beside him as the bus steadily lumbered down the uneven pavement. It swayed gently side to side as it traveled mile after mile. In his hands, a photo could be seen. Many creases were visible showing it was held often. Absently, lovingly, he ran his thumb across the picture as his eyes gazed out the window. Impassively, the young boy watched as small towns and neighborhoods gradually changed over to rolling hills and pasture land.

. .

The small child looked up at the woman with solemn, brown eyes. "I want to see the stars," he stated simply. The woman was at the kitchen sink washing dishes for the millionth time. She glanced down with tight, fatigued eyes. "Why do you want to see the stars?" she asked.

The boy simply repeated, "I want to see the stars." The clock on the wall ticked slowly while he waited for her to reply.

The woman watched him a moment longer before returning to the soapy dishes. "We live in a city. We can't see the stars."

His brows furrowed as he repeated stubbornly, "I want to see the stars."

Exasperated, the woman turned toward the boy. "We can't see the stars!" She exploded.  "We live in a city. There's too much light to see the stars!" She pointed a soapy, pruned finger towards the postage stamp yard and said tersely, "Go play outside."

The young child's heart beat fiercely, a sparrow wildly beating its wings inside his small body. In his hand he clutched a familiar picture. Slowly, as the wings come to trembling stop, the small boy turned and trudged across the worn linoleum.

. .

The bus lurched to a stop. The brakes let out a relieved hiss as the doors are opened. The young child blinks and stands up.

As he exits the bus, the driver, an older man with grey stubble and a receding hairline, called to him, "Hey kid, are your parents meeting you here?"

The boy looked up at the concerned face and gave a small, reassuring smile. "Yes. They're waiting for me."

Uncertain, the driver glanced at the clock, anxious to keep to the bus's schedule. "I can wait a few minutes for them." He peered around the parking lot.

"It's okay," the child replied with the small smile. "I'm meeting them right down the road." As an afterthought, he remembered to add politely, "Thank you!"

Hesitantly, the driver said, "Okay. If you're sure you'll be alright...." He paused, still concerned for the young boy. "Be safe."

The doors closed and the bus began to sway again as it continued on its journey. The boy's hand dropped back to his side from where he waved bye to the kind, old man. As the bus turned back into the street, the small boy turned and began to walk out of town.

. .

In the tiny yard, the boy sat glummly with his chin resting in his hands. He stared sadly up at the bright blue sky and the lazy, puffy clouds. He held the picture up and looked at it longingly. A resigned sigh left his small body. After some time, a determined light glinted in his eyes and he stood up. Checking his pockets he pulled out a few crumpled bills. Glancing over his shoulder at the small house, he made a decision and strode out of the yard.

. .

The sun was nearing the horizon as the young boy climbed a hill dotted with white flowers. He laid down in the tall grass. As he listened to the calming buzz of insects in the warm fading light, his eyes drifted shut.

Hours later, the young boy twitched and woke with a start. Disoriented in the darkness, he sat up and frantically looked around. As his breathing evened out, he remembered the stars. Wide, hope-filled eyes shot skyward. In

the next moment, disappointment gutted his chest.

The sky was blanketed in clouds. Slowly at first, tears pricked his eyes. Soon great rivers flooded his cheeks as tremendous sobs wracked his small body. He hugged his knees to his chest as despair raged through his body.

. .

The sky was a washed out blue, clear of all clouds. The young boy stood in a crowd of people. His hands rested at his sides, empty. His aunt was beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder. Intense grief pinched her face. Everyone was wearing black. Sniffles could be heard as a man spoke about tragedies and how brief life can be. After a time the man stopped talking. The boy's aunt moved towards the two caskets. Spying a chair, the young child sat down. Behind him, his Great Grammie leaned forward.

"Such a shock," she commented sadly. They shared a moment of quiet, watching the people milling about. Suddenly she asks, "You ever seen a shooting star?" The young child turned around and shook his head.

She smiled gently at the boy. "When my Da died," she began, "my Ma told me a secret about shootin' stars." A pause where she saw the curiosity grow in his dulled eyes. "I think I can share that secret with you now. Come on closer." He quickly scooted closer, leaning forward to hear her. "My Ma told me that shooting stars are loved ones findin' their way back to the Earth." Seeing the confused look on his face, she explained further, "She told me that when people die, they become stars. And when they're ready to come back to Earth the stars fall."

"But where do they go when they come back?" The young child asked, still bewildered.

A soft smile pulled up at her wrinkles. "They come back as new life," she explained. "Could be a new born babe or a flitterin' bird. A pretty flower. The soft babble of a brook or the playful breeze pullin' at your hair." The old woman leaned back in the hard plastic chair. "It just depends on where their spark falls."

The young boy looked back at the two caskets as he thought about the secret his Great Grammie had shared with him.

. .

After a time, his eyes ran out of tears to cry and he took shuddering breaths. He kept his head pressed into his knees. Every now and again a sob would work is way up and a few more tears would fall. Despair and grief clung to his small shoulders. A breeze ruffled his hair and gently tugged at his shirt. Slowly the boy raised his head and gasped in amazement. Spread out before the hilltop, it seemed to the boy as if the whole sky were spinning. Free of clouds, star after shooting star fell to the earth.