Did I take it too far? (Did I take it too far?)
Now I know what you are (Are)
You hit me so hard (So hard)
I saw stars (I saw stars)
Think I took it too far (Too far)
When I sold you my heart (My heart)
How'd it get so dark? (So dark)
I saw stars (I saw stars)
Stars (Stars)
One of my most treasured childhood memories is of standing on Caleb's Chuck Taylor All-Stars (black, of course, every other boy in the neighbourhood had white or pale blue ones. My brand new ones are baby-pink, in case you're wondering and I wear them with dresses), my feet on his, at the very end of the dock by the lake, holding one of his hands, and twirling around off the end of the dock, an endless arabesque, though at the time I pointed out with great joy that I was practising my camel spin for figure skating in winter. He would pay attention without seeming to, switch hands, catching me, spinning me back out over the water, a distracted dance to entertain an eight-year-old out past her bedtime, while the older teenagers hung out and talked. I could extend my free arm out dramatically and I always felt as if I could fly, out over the water and back safely toward land. That tiny dancer unaware of a future coming down the tracks like a freight train and she couldn't hear it at all, she couldn't feel it and she never saw it, in the end, a ballerina popping up only when you open the box but when you close it again she starts screaming.
I still do that dance sometimes, but now the dock juts out over the ocean, and Caleb doesn't wear All-Stars anymore. If he's down there he's got his brown leather boat shoes and I am always in bare feet, leaving my shoes by the steps. I twirl out with one hand and realize that I can't switch on the way back but he is prepared for that, with his other arm out to bring me in as I habitually let go. I keep my broken hand close to me and still I persist in old morning habits dying hard. The water is cool and dark grey today, reflecting the sky full of clouds and ash. We're on the moon, we're over it all. We're not built for the sun.
I let go but Caleb himself has never let go, even as every other boy has taken the opportunity to see me fall in the water for laughs after a semi-awkward twirl or two because he was always the tallest. He never lets me go. He says that should mean something. I don't know if it does. Maybe it should? Or maybe it's just a memory and I can close the lid on it and throw it far out into the sea. Or maybe I can keep twirling on his feet, a connected but disconnected novelty, kept in a box far out of sight until it's all you can see for miles and miles.