Golden Star

The woman bent over the foot of the crib of her sleeping baby.
Eggshell eyelids, rose bud lips, red hair with the strength that was inside her,
The dreams no one yet knew about.
Stroking the satin cheek, she sang:

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

The woman closed the door to the early morning
Seeping through the window, and never returned.

*
Sitting next to her father on the couch, watching tv, the little girl wondered.
What would it be like, to be a singer?
And by the time the tornado came,
Her mind was decided.
And after the witch had melted,
And Dorothy and To-To were safely home,
She skipped off to bed, happy for once, humming a song that seemed forgotten in her mind,
But still there:

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

Her nine-year-old mind clicked.
Something in the world was worth having.
Something in the world was worth reaching for.

*
Legally an adult. Finally free.
The woman opened the door to her fixed-up 1987 navy-blue Volvo.
Before getting in, she turned back, one last glance at the
White-washed farmhouse glowing in the dawn,
Red shaded windows with window boxes never used.
Funny how it just now seemed special.
A wind blew through the trees.
The branches of her weeping willow brushed against one another.
There was a rush of sadness.

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

But something in the world was worth having.
Something in the world was worth reaching for.
In order to have that thing, something else needed to be left behind.
On her way to New York, where it all lay.

*
After a few miles of open, two-laned road, when the silence was no longer bearable,
She turned on the radio.
But the off-tune, country-twang, self pity didn't change the tear sliding down her cheek.
The sound was blocked out of her head.
She pulled over to the side of the road,
Though it wouldn't have mattered if she had just stopped in the middle.
Leaning against the torn seat cover, she took a deep breath.
Shaky, forcefully:

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

The key was turned again.
The steering wheel slid in her hands.
And within 22 hours, she reached the border.

*
After pulling the strings, working the hours, making a bajillion deli sandwiches,
She finally got that big audition.
Up on stage, she sang the song she had been preparing for a month.
Heart racing, voice fluttery, thin, and weak.
She knew it had gone badly, even without them saying anything.
All she wanted was to disappear; she resisted all urges not to look at her feet.
Look straight ahead, sharp eyes,
Hair draped over a determinedly stiff jaw.
One of the people out there, too far out to put a face to, spoke.
Her mind was racing, but she understood.
Singing from the heart was the best kind of music.
The girl's eyes closed.
A wave of strength flowed from somewhere deep inside.

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

There was a pause.
Unsure, she opened one eye, then the other.
The man who had spoken was up a few rows, close enough to see his smile.

*
Walking out to the edge of the stage, but still hidden by the big black curtain.
Head held high; curls balanced.
With moments until the big number, her heart was pumping.
In the audience, her father was sitting,
Proudest man in the room.
The overture began.
And in the air, the two heard a voice blending in with the melody.

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

The curtain rose.
A foot stepped out on stage.
And a legend began.

*
*
She had done it.
In her hand she help limitless possibilities.
In her hand her dreams came true.
In her hand was the future.
Burning with the strength on the golden star.

*
*

Far off, across the country,
A desperate mother tried to sooth a crying baby in the night.
One last hope.
Pushing buttons, the music suddenly filled the room.
A voice straight from the Big City hummed and murmured the familiar words:

In your hand you hold the golden star.
The golden star filled with fire.
In that fire burns hope, and desire,
With the passion to carry you far.

*
And another dream was born.