London Bridge

“All the stars are falling down, falling down, all the stars are falling down tonight.“

Your humming pierces the velvet that has been so carefully laid across the night sky. The stars, of course, aren’t falling down in the slightest. They have no reason to do so, and falling is a most graceless act that the stars think they’re better than. Realy, though, everybody falls. I saw the North Star trip over their shoelaces just last week. 

But we’re not talking about the stars. We happen to be talking, or narrating, about you. You are the center of my attention, always have been. You’re a pleasant person, a pleasant person who’s still humming that little tune over and over. Your sister came up with that tune. She used to have a hard time pronouncing ‘London’, for some reason, and decided that the stars were a better substitute.

The stars in question are looking over you right now, in fact. They are judging you. Not in a bad way, you see, for they tend to forget to cast light in negatives. How do you think we get shadows when the sun has gone to deal with it’s own affairs, and let us rest awhile? The stars do not judge the sun for that. They have their own little solar systems to care for, like gentle gardeners that you read about in children’s picture books. 

The stars are casting shadows against the flowers cracking through the cement at your feet. They race along with you, those little shadows, as your bicycle flies over the broken memory of a society washed away. But, as I said, the stars are judging you. 

They judge that you are a good person, my friend. They judge that you do not deserve the ills and strife that have been slowly burying you under their dust. Who has been giving you these troubles, they wonder? Who wields the trowel to seal up your tomb while you are yet alive? They would judge that person far differently than they judge you, as the starker negatives stand out to them as clear as the void they are suspended in. It is cruel, then, that there is no one for the stars to cast these faults upon. It is the simple happening of this world that has done such things to you. Disease, natural disasters, and all manners of stuff. 

Adrenaline rushes into your veins as you almost fall off your bike. The road is uneven here, you see. It’s uneven everywhere. There is no one to set it right. Your hand tightens on the gathering of wild roses you’ve been holding onto for ages. Don’t worry, you don’t fall, you are safe in every regard. And, though the London bridge is falling down, you haven’t managed to do so yet.

Your voice breaks the silence again, but it’s different this time. More like the lovely white noise of rain than the sound of shears running through silk. 

“All the stars are falling down, my dear, all the stars are falling down tonight.”

You miss your sister. Her voice was soft, and untainted. Yours is marked rough by smoke and screaming at the night. The stars know this, and they do not put you down as a fool for it. They also know where you’re going. They know the errand you have sent yourself on, and puzzle over it, as if they do not understand the necessity of it. They know they do not understand. It seems that they have come to peace with that. Which, of course, is lovely, because there has already been too much turmoil. No need to grace it with more. 

You look over your shoulder. Not in the way you’re used to, not a flickering glance to see what’s chasing you this time, but a strange sort of curiosity. You’ve not done that in a while- it was never safe to. It was never safe to see what you can’t go back towards. 

But what do you see, my friend? What do you see? 

You see London Bridge, falling down, falling down tonight. Not the stars, they still stand at their posts with all sincerity and strength. The bridge. You’d best start going a bit faster. The towers that used to stand with an old king of elegance are long since gone, but the cement is buckling now. The cement falls into the river as if trapped in slow motion, all while you grow ever closer to the other side of the bank. Fifty yards, now, you’re almost off the burning bridge. It’s not burning, though. Used to be. Not anymore. 

There, you did it. You’re safe again. London Bridge is falling down. Look, look at it. Witness another quiet offing of humanity, that gentle thing. It wasn’t all it was held up to be, was it? No, you know it wasn’t. You’re nearly rendered deaf by the crack that echoes through the air. And then the next one. And the next, and the next, as what was left of such a brilliant city comes tumbling down. Within a few moments, there is nothing left to stare at.

Turn your back to this event, and keep going. You’re almost there. There is nothing left to look at, nothing to pay your respects to. 

Pick up the pace, would you? It’s not dangerous to be out here at night, but there’s something scary about it you can’t quite put your finger on. Kind of like when everything is moved three inches to the left without anyone telling you. Your sister, Camilla, did that a few times. She’d gotten a laugh out of it when you’d walked into the sofa for the third time. Worth the sprained ankle, don’t you think?

There, you can almost see it now. The object of your journey. The flowers you left there last time are dead by now, with a  million things to kill them again. The trees are alive, though. Saplings, not trees. They haven’t had long to reclaim their place in the world. 

You lean your bike against a dilapidated wall, gently. It’s served you too well for a dramatic shot of tossing it on the ground, I think. You might agree with me. I’m not sure. You might agree with anything, but your thoughts are yours and your alone. 

The graveyard looks lonely at night. Maybe it’s supposed to look like that. Maybe you’re the lonely one, but who knows? You do. You know. But I don’t, the stars don’t, and neither do the graves you stand before. No one here knows you as well as your sister did, my friend, and now she lies underneath the dirt you stand before. 

Her gravestone is simple. I need not explain the details of it to you, as you’re staring at it right now. Now, again, a million times you’ve done this. Laid the flowers down, spoke not a word, and turned to find somewhere to sleep. 

“All the stars are falling down, falling down, all the stars are falling down tonight.“