Sol's Random Stories

1833, November 12, an ordinary Tuesday for most, but sadly not for Andrew Hawthorne, in the hospital, likely his very last night in this world. The unsparing disease had progressed very quickly, the medicine just wasn't working. He knew full well that the end was at hand, while drifting in and out of consciousness, at least in no pain. Andrew was at the end of his days on this earth, and was grateful for his family who came to be with him at dusk. The final evening was peaceful. Then, at around midnight, everything exploded into noise and commotion outside, with many people suddenly in the streets, some shouting, or running. While Andrew slept soundly, his family rushed to the hospital room's window, and were frozen with astonishment. From the night sky came down a thousand stars, falling as if from a giant pitcher from Heaven! Folks poured out of their homes gazing skyward, as flints of light descended and disappeared in glorious splendor, a cascade of falling stars for the ag...

We're tempted to say the dawn came reluctantly that certain day, but that's merely more of our reflexive, dogmatic, and quaintly indefatigable projecting. Nothing more. The obscurely unremarkable star we call the sun doesn't 'feel' as is our experience, yet we would put our humanness on all that we need to draw more near or find more relevant. Miriam knew all of this, they're hardly new insights, nor was her realization that another Thursday too much like the last had begun. Staring blankly into her small closet, whether she wears this or she wears that doesn't matter to her at all-- just another annoying decision to make. Always neat and presentable, she steps outside squinting at the morning light. But she wants to keep her eyes tightly closed, just forget the zero job, forget the world, then step back inside to hide away for a day, a year, maybe longer.  Until Miriam can recall how to start over.