In Praise of Falling

Stars

Stars Electric guitar and amateur drums thumping out the open door, I sat on a fifty-pound bag of water softener salt in Matt Keller’s garage, chopsticks tapping the bumper of his dad’sTR, as if I knew how to play along. Ghost in the Dust they named his band—Matt the only freckled blond in a troupe of brown-skinned boys. No doubt they were as untalented as the kids squawking on th Street today, drowned out by a carpenter’s Skilsaw whine. Still we neighbor girls cheered after every song, and that boy got me wondering how to dream: age fourteen, Matt was writing a mystery novel, custom painting a BMX bike and vowing he’d drum his way past Neil Peart by age nineteen.All summer we listened to covers of Led Zeppelin, Styx,The Rolling Stones, until streetlights switched on, or Dad’s dog-trainer whistle called me in.Then I’d jump up, dust off my shorts, and Matt would start barking as I ran toward home— Not funny, I’d yell, instead of goodbye.Tonight,  Dumesnil PGS:Layout 1 4/28/09 12:32 PM Page 29 those kids on th called it a wrap early and left me with an open window, swinging green drapes, remembering the night Mom said, One day girl,you’ll stop worshipping the stars and become one,but didn’t tell me how.  Dumesnil PGS:Layout 1 4/28/09 12:32 PM Page 30 ...