My outwardly unromantic, unsentimental
father would, on occasion, break into
song — not the lyrics of a blockbuster
musical that my mother might hum as she
danced around the house, but simple
lyrics of a song sung quietly with
just me as the audience:
Stars are the windows of heaven
Where Angels peek through.
Up in the sky, they keep an eye,
On kids like me and you.
They cry each time we are naughty,
Their teardrops are the rain,
But when we’re good they are smiling,
And they shine again.
Stars are the windows of heaven,
where Angels peek through.

And later, on my own, I would sing
in a Jiminy Cricket voice,
When you wish upon a star,
makes no difference who you are….

And sometimes, even now, I wish
upon a star that my dad were
still singing before that audience
of just one — his son.

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