She was a mischievous child.
Young, beautiful, playful, curious.
And at the mere age of six,
She had a secret.

Her eyes were two twinkling, shooting stars.
Stars that she had mischievously reached up and snatched from the sky one night with a butterfly net
When no one was looking.
She kept them safe, tucked away in secretive sockets so no one would know what she'd done.
They were her secret to keep.

The world spun on, and she aged and aged.
Her life went on.
She married, she worked, she had children of her own,
And not a single soul did she tell her secret of stolen light to.

Finally,
It was her last day on this planet.
She lay in her bed, covered in crocheted blankets, adorned in wrinkles
With her six year old granddaughter sitting at her bedside.

She felt herself starting to die.
She mustered up all the strength she possessed to sit up one last time.
She leaned over towards her granddaughter.
She put a bony, gentle finger to her pursed lips, and winking at the darling youth.

And then,
Mischievously, with a knowing smile,
She reached up and plucked the two twinkling, shooting stars from her eye sockets.
She extended a frail hand, palms filled by two orbs of pure shimmery light
And with a tender, placid touch
Set the stars into the sockets of her granddaughter
For the girl keep for her lifetime
Just as she had.

She slowly, calmly, laid back down.
She winked again at the youthful girl, who, in turn, put her finger up to her pursed lips.
Then, leaving her long-protected secret in the hands of  her darling kin with new sparkling eyes,
The aged mademoiselle gently shut her eyelids over dark, empty sockets
For the very last time.

{alaska}