Lying on the blacktop of a childhood playground, she cupped her hands around her eyes so all she could see was the sky. A jet cut a stripe of white that widened across the moon and the clouds and the stars and she wondered if she would see a shooting one, or if the sky was more like a window or a ceiling, or if the wind would catch her words before they could be carried anywhere, and she wondered about where she was, what her spine was flattened up against because while she knew it was the pavement of a small basketball court, but she also knew it was children's dreams and scabs from falling and lemonade spills when the weather was warm, and she wondered about breathing and her lungs and what if she was to stop and who would wonder why, and she wondered about staying here all night long because the nighttime was her favorite, crickets' legs like violin bows on the strings of the darkness, the gentle movement of the earth rotating toward a new day, and she wondered about the silences too because sometimes the silence is the most important thing about a situation, and she kept her hands cupped around her eyes so that all she could do was see the nighttime stars and she wondered if people were somewhere up there looking back at her wondering this, too.