The Bright Rally

We accepted that this death would happen in five billion years. We believed it would not be a problem for us as we would be eternally resting with our ancestors.

But billions got slashed and truncated down to years that drained into months.

Now, we’re just days away from the sun’s death.

Scientists who studied the universe for much of their lives had few explanations. Heartbroken astronomers bore the brunt of our anger. Their brightness dimmed over the dire turn of events. There was nothing left but to try to prepare the rest of the world for its imminent demise.

The sun had death at the forefront of our minds. Many of us, myself included, could not see beyond our mortality, but we had no choice but to face it.

How can we accept dying when we have so much living left to do?

For some of us, it started with reconciliation. My wife took the time to reach out to anyone she believed she had wronged.

“I have a clear conscience; my soul is at peace,” she said when I asked her if it was worth it. My efforts felt unfulfilling, but I figured I had done my part to clear my conscience. My soul was unsettled.

Teresa was pregnant with our twin boys when we learned the sun’s death date shifted up to ten years away. We were among the last adults permitted to have children; the rationale was that our offspring would have at least 60 years of life before the sun died.

Once Aiden and Craig were born, doomsday moved up again. Our oldest was two years old.

“I never would have brought these babies into the world had I known they would have…” Teresa couldn’t bring herself to say it. She didn’t need to, thinking it was bad enough. She snuggled up to Craig. I held Aiden and stared into his beautiful blue eyes. I didn’t dare look at Teresa.

“Maybe they’ve got it wrong,” I managed to say. That was the vestige of hope that kept us going.

Maybe the scientists miscalculated the miscalculations! We might not die! I tried to convince myself, but the signs were there.

Some days, hope shone almost as vividly as it once did. We would embrace the warmth and life of the sun, spending much of our time outside.

On those days, I’d leave the office early, pick the children up, and take them to one of the few remaining parks. Most of the time, Teresa would join us. When she didn’t, she would spend time in her garden.

When the sun lacked strength, we endured consecutive days of darkness. Those sunless days were our dark reminders. But just as we thought we’d finally reached life’s conclusion, the sun would burst forth from its slumber and shine for another day.

The sun’s absence drove many of us to take matters into our own hands. My brother was one of them. Chad told me he had done everything in his life, and his last wish was to control his fate. Had I not had children, I am not uncertain that I would not have done the same.

I didn’t want my children to be alone.

“Will we feel it?” asked my 10-year-old Patricia one night as she was getting ready for bed. I knew what she meant, though I wished I didn’t.

The last act of the dying sun would be engulfing Mercury, Venus, and Earth. There would be no survivors. This truth we could not keep in the shadows; our children had to know.

I resented the universe for putting me in this position.

“It will happen so fast, we won’t have time to react. We won’t feel a thing,” I said.

At least, that is what the scientists told us. Our deaths would be painless.

“Will we be together when it happens? Just like how Mommy said?”

“Yes, we will all be together when it happens. You, me, the twins, and Mommy.” I said.

We would spend our last day camping in the backyard.

We pitched a tent large enough for all of us to stay in comfortably; the kids decorated it based on their favorite holiday. Glittery, colorful lights lined the top and sides of the tent. Stockings were resting on our sleeping bags with notes of love and our favorite candies.

It was Aiden’s idea to put our Christmas tree right outside the tent. We even planned to exchange gifts.

Teresa and I knew we wouldn’t want to observe the stars if there were any in the sky, so we left the telescope in the garage. Looking up to the heavens wouldn’t change a thing.

In this, the last week of life, the sun flickered and sputtered as it tried to function. We waited sadly for the sun’s final rally. We had nothing else to do since everything shut down. In these remaining days, everyone stayed home.

“It will seem as if the sun is better and stronger than ever,” said one of many experts on one of those live streams newscasters and amateurs produced from their homes.

“And when it does, that will be the time to go to your final place and say your farewells,” said another expert.

“Death will be roughly eight to ten hours from the onset of the rally,” said the first expert.

Two days later, the sun was its most beautiful, vibrant, and warm. It was immensely dazzling. The yellow dwarf star gave us its very last illuminated blessing.

How could something be so inspiring and depressing? So vibrant but dark? This dichotomy was nothing worth pondering; the message was clear.

“Wow, it is giving us our best. Quite the send-off, huh?” Teresa said. I could only nod.

We paused a moment before we called the children down from their rooms. She squeezed my hand as we heard their footsteps thunder down the stairs.

“All right, kiddos! It’s time to go camping!” I announced. They looked at each other and then at us. There was a mix of excitement and fear in their faces. We pulled our babies into a tight embrace.

Then, the children, hand in hand, walked in unison to the backyard. We followed them, holding hands, and holding back tears.