I live among such constellations, bright and twinkling clusters of stars, made of star dust, made of matter, made of the moment and the scattered burnt shooting star offerings that flash to earth and burn and are gone, like a life. I live among such constellations. One of them has the softest velvet eyes, like a doe. She observes her world from such a place and takes photos of us against the bright Christmas lights of London. Those bright star like lights. White and luminous, in the darkness, against her creamy skin. I see only light and the velvet brown of her eyes. She is one of the sturdy ones. Her embrace is steel. She has me in her embrace and I am safe. No longer Princess. She is Queen. She earned her crown of thorns. I ask her to reveal that darkness to the light. My mistake. Because. She already has and who am I to tear her away from her hard earned, scarred and burned underworld. Lady. Queen. Sister. The way you shriek and baulk at my childish, girlish play, like as if we are seven or eight and we are bouncing on a shared bed and I am the only one allowed to share your dread of that Celtic fairy tale that haunts you in the spaces of your adult life.
I want to hold on to you. We share gratitude’s on the tube. You are one of the beatitudes. When I am with you I feel supreme blessedness. Even in your desire to outwit the foxiest fox, I see your connection to God. You hand me a prayer by St. Jude, as you do I want you to know that I need only look into the soul of your eyes to know and be absolutely certain, that God exists and you M’lady are closer than you may ever know to that most High. That most exalted.
Our moments are fleeting, like those shooting stars over a lost continent. Through the eons, sisters come, sisters go. You are the brightest star of the underworld. You bring them the light. The light in the darkness. The soft prevailing light of a constellation.