Dogged Star
I am tired, but I am awake. It is morning, but it’s still pitch black outside. Hoping for some stars or the moon, I pull open the blinds in the kitchen and stare at a reflection of myself. I had a glimpse of cool white stars before closing these blinds at bedtime. It hadn’t been as dark then. Little wisps of violet were still visible around the tree tops.
Now drenched in tar darkness, I withdraw from the window. The midcentury clock on the dining room wall features a four-pointed star. I content myself with this, watching the second hand travel over the face of the tile. There is no other clock like this one in the world. It was made by my grandfather. To the right of the time-keeping element, there is a mosaic of a ballerina.
Not just a ballerina. She is a depiction of a very specific ballerina, the first black ballerina that my grandparents saw in a televised performance. She is Janet Collins. My grandmother wept when she saw her dance. My grandfather made the clock for her as an anniversary gift. Remembering this, I am more than content. I am awe-struck, filled with love and joy. I couldn’t wish on a brighter, more unswerving star than this.
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