her own little galaxy

She sits in the old blue velvet rocking chair, the one that tips over too easily. Her hair is wet from the shower and it seeps into the chair's back, jasmine and mint stains. The room is a bright yellow and the fan is on, chasing away the haze from the rickety oven as it cooks chicken. The darkness presses against the windows but fails to sneak into the warm interior. The small, squatted house perches on Rose Lane, amongst a cluster of other houses, smooth white sidewalks and newly paved roads. The suburbs are quiet at night but the lights never go out. They only dim, enough so that shadows roam free but shrink away from golden doorways. You can barely see the stars, but looking down from the gray clouds above the sprawling towns, the lights form their own galaxy. Fly even farther and twinkling lights blink from the rolling hills, earthly stars in the night.