If I let it be the dust it sparkles naturally as it’ll be lost to the wind. The wind that howls and breeds anxiety in my chest; that irrational paranoia from my youth.

In the wind it cuts and rubs my skin raw while I hold my breath, clenching every muscle I have like soldiers bracing shields against the storming enemy’s assault.

In my hands it’s beautiful though. A thing of rare wonder that frosts mountains and turns the ordinary in to magic, capable of vanishing the air in your lungs in to a gasp of wonder and awe.

If I let it be the dust it sparkles naturally as the wind will take it for its own, leaving nothing but cold, faint reminders of crystals melting in my gloves. That’s why I cup my hands together and pack it. I pack solid and dense, and then grab handfuls to pack it more. Pressed and rounded I smooth the edges until they’re gone and hold it in my hands anew. The wind glides around it and moves my hands before it’ll get any of the neat ball I’ve shaped my treasure in to.

I won’t see it lost to the feral winds. I’ll pack so cleanly and precise that I can keep it as I go.