A Dying Sky

Janell Zimmerer

David Crouse

2/3/11

Polly Girl only noticed stars. Bright yellowish-white ones, dull red ones falling from the sky, close ones, far ones, ones that appeared but didn’t exist. During the day she’d stand outside in the middle of the lawn, with a blanket and stare at the sun. She never wore the blanket just held it like a child in her left hand dragging against the ground. Her right hand always held a cup of ice-cold black coffee that was at least a day old.

Every morning, Polly Girl woke at 5am. She would draw the currents back in the kitchen and fix her eyes on the remaining stars. Washing the dishes counter clockwise, chewing on a mint leaf and waiting until her coffee was 55 degrees exactly.

The clock in the hall chimed at 6 and she would avert her eyes away from the stars and stare into the empty room. The living room was kept just as her mother had left it before she died. That was 5 years ago.

Polly Girl, which unfortunately was her birth name, would then walk to the bookshelf. She’d pick up a copy of Ann Frank, which was kept on the third shelve and thumb through it landing on the cover that had a picture of a constellation. It was black with a little girls face on it. It was worn with rips and tares in the binding; several pages were coming loose in the middle. She never noticed the missing pages or the coffee stain on page 52; she just stared at the cover wanting the stars to fall down around her.

Her room upstairs had been fitted with a sky roof for here 16^th birthday. Polly Girl didn’t have a lot of friends; the skylight took the place of a party. At night she’d sit directly in the middle of her bed, one leg crossed over the other and stares through the glass up at the ever-dying sky.

Mornings and nights seemed to pass in the same fashion with little changing other than the weather, which held little, interest for Polly Girl. She didn’t care that the seasons changes. Snow would fall on the ground and still she could be seen staring at the stars in the middle of her lawn with shorts and a blanket absentmindedly dragging against the ground.

But she noticed the new stars appear as the earth stun on an oval. She knew all the constellations by heart. She waited for the summer constellation to drift off and turns into orange colored fall constellation. The fall would crash into winter and then turn like a cat rolling over into spring. The spring stars were here favorite they lifted the eyes after the sleep of winter, at least when the skies were clear.

Polly Girl had dark red hair with wild ends that twisted over here her white cheeks. Her blue eyes paired out from the mass of unwashed hair.

After flipping through the book, on Tuesday and Thursday she would walk up the blue stairs to shower. On those particular days she would head to the super market to buy rice, milk, eggs, beard and some butter. She would hold all the items in her arms and count the places that drawn stars appeared in the town.

Her mind would dwell on how they lack intricately and beauty. The stars that were around the town were flat against the vast sky. Polly took time to arrange the items so the eggs were on the bottom, then the rice and butter, then the bread and last in her left hand she’d hold the milk.

Everyone in the town pretty much stayed away from her because she rarely talks to anyone that ventured a smile at her. Polly Girl was not rude; she’d smile back and walk to the 15 items or less lane.

Most people thought that this odd behavior was because her mother had died 5 years ago and she had been the one to find her. The other leading theory was that her father had been a failed astronaut. They remember seeing him in the summer evening lying in the grass next to Polly Girl and pointing up. They remember, or at least they assumed that the girl was once a happy child, as they believed their own children were. When Polly was 16 her father vanished without so much as a shoelace missing.

She would walk home humming “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. The door to the house was painted a bright blood red. It stood out on a street where most doors were painted white. She tended to leave her bedroom window open during the summer. Polly Girl sat the items on the table then put them in the fridge: eggs, butter, bread, rice and milk.