The Crown Treasure
When I think about myself holdng it at 80, I feel my treasure has always been the sky. I, like others, called it the blue hour, noted its luminous shadows that ran ahead on brilliant days and flickered on dark and stormy nights. I traced its storied legends, the lore spread twinkling in the chaptered depths. I dreamed its scent, sweet and gold as lollipops, and felt it when it weeped, life liquid against the windows.
I got it when I was born in the early hours, just before the fall equinox, a 3:30 a.m epiphany. My memoir began, pushed and spilled, beneath the Milky Way’s gaze, the moon wide-eyed, full and visible, on that thirteenth of September.
I call the sky my treasure because who can count the myriad number of ways it tells it loves you? It speaks in memory, invisible, unravels in wind. It captured all my wish-I-may-wish-I-might moments, gathered them daily into a bundled glowing sphere and each evening it scattered them like ashes into embers–tiny, celestial night lights.
When I think about my treasure I can tell you I have worn it since my crowning, the moment she gave birth.
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