“Angels fly because they take themselves lightly

“Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.”

G.K. Chesterton

FIRST CAME THE STARS

By. Alexander Rivera

The snow fell quietly, cotton whiffs blowing freely in the wind as the fisherman paddled in his small canoe in the shimmering, placid lake just waiting to be frozen from the low, frigid temperatures of the night. He lifted his head up to give witness to the dancing arcs of the Aurora Borealis. In the twilight, northern lights coruscated soundly in front of pinpricked stars. Distorted celestial tendrils glowed in the ice cold sky. Quick-moving clouds dominated the heavens, as dark star-traced reflections, in a waltz, on the lake.

It was unstable yet graceful.

Intense yet peaceful.

His eyes reflected in the lights’ illumination, as if a dimensional phenomenon took place in the cores of his pure, bluish-green orbs. Blue, green, and yellow all shone in the spectrum of the fascinating lights; the entire majestic assemblage resulting from the sun against eternal darkness. The moon was absent, driven out of the heavens for this unusual occurrence. The fisherman was captivated, mesmerized by its otherworldly beauty as if by force, he couldn’t look away from the intermingling drapes that seemed endless.

The trees were silhouetted against the solar light, converging, multi-colored ray filled curtains, broad and delicate in the night sky. Words were inadequate in describing this spectacular, natural light show. The lights clutched onto him, able to do whatever they wanted, he was theirs.

The near ethereal, immersive sights entered itself into his mind, nearly hypnotized like a moth fluttering around a mesmerizing light. It lured him like a dog tempted by a treat. Raptured like a righteous prophet into blazing chariots of fire, he ascended into the glowing opening gates of the northern lights and into an oscillating tunnel without a care. A brazen, golden light coming from the end, bade him.

As the fisherman began to walk, an unusual feeling washed over him, heightening his senses along the way. He could taste the sharpness of the light. He could feel the warmth of the bright glow penetrating every pore on his goose-bumped skin, sniffing in the citrus must of the luminosity.

The mystic fog of this dreamy, afterlife realm slowly dissipated, leaving only the Elysian Fields to his guidance. His pupils dilated, with his vision becoming distanced. Out of the bottom corner of his eye, he could see the place he left, from the placid, chilly lake, reflecting the twilight Alaskan sky. He envisioned his loved ones as they looked down upon his empty casket with roses in their hands. Tossing them upon the descending coffin, six feet under, as he sighed a boisterous huff, throwing nothing but lost feelings upon those who lamented below. They vanished from sight into the spreading curve of the night.

Four lonely wings spread while watching his position on earth slowly spin away. Attempting to wave, he quickly realized no one could see him. Feeling his former incarnation was a lost cause, working so hard to love so much, to only lose it at the twinkling of a star. Dead to the world, he feels his way through Elysian Fields - loneliness begins to envelop, hoping vague memories would live with them, as he faced an old venture of the Heavenly Host.

Suddenly he remembered who the fisherman was, recalling a sentence uttered to him by another luminary, “First came the stars. Us. Our majesty gives birth to light.”

Feeling as though one day he would return, like how a dog chases its tail to his love of the same Alaskan lake that filled him with temporal tranquility. Torn between worlds, he hoped his reunion wouldn’t fail as he flew lividly further into silver city of Paradise.