The Stars

"The stars are so beautiful tonight. You would love them; I know how much you enjoy things like that."

My whisper makes a cloud of white vapor rise from my mouth, almost like my soul is trying to escape my body.

As I lay on the cold, hard ground, the stars fill my eyes and my heart all at the same time. The sheer endlessness of them makes me feel small and insignificant, but at the same time it makes my heart swell up until I almost can't breathe. You see, they remind me of my one and only love, Emily.

Emily always loved dragging me out of the house at 3 a.m. to gaze at the stars. We would try to stay awake by making up constellations and the stories behind them, but we always ended up falling asleep at least once. Sometimes she would wake me by gently kissing the dewdrops from my eyelashes, and others she would wake me by giggling as she jabbed a sharp elbow into my side (She would always give me a kiss for my "boo-boo" though, so I didn't mind so much). Those nights, even though I jokingly protested and complained, were the best of my life. They made me feel alive, like I was electrified, warmed from the crown of my head to the tippy tips of my toes.

In contrast, the stars are cold and remote, and have seen more than I would ever want someone to. They were looking down on me for all the tears that blurred them into streaks. They were there the night that my heart was mangled beyond all recognition. They have been here every night before I was born, and will be here every night after I die.

Though they saw the worst time of my life, I doubt they cared. After all, what are pitiful human trials to the endless brightness of a star?

Though the stars don't care, Emily has been on my mind every night in the seven years that she has been gone.

That night, seven years ago to the day, Emily was on her way home from her sister's house. She had been there because we had a fight. You see, we had been married for two years at that point, and she was ready to try for a baby. I was definitely not. I wasn't ready to be a parent, to have all the responsibility of making sure it survived, and that I didn't mess it up. I was scared, and worried, and I let those negative emotions get the best of me. I remember that she was so happy at the thought, and I squashed that light in her eyes. She was trying so hard to be calm and kind, but I wasn't. I don't remember everything we said, but I do remember my last words to her:

"Fine, then! Leave! Maybe you should just find someone else to love, since apparently I'm not enough for you!"

I knew as soon as I said it that I went too far. She shrunk in on herself, like a paper doll beginning to curl from being burnt. The tears spilled down her face, and I immediately wanted to take it back. But she spun and ran out the door before I could say anything to try and fix it. When I got to the door, she was already in the car. I slumped against the frame, and sobbed. I don't know how long I cried, but when I was done I felt dehydrated and tired. I refused to go to sleep, though, in case she came home. I tried calling her, but she never picked up her phone. I left countless voicemails, apologizing, begging her to come home and talk to me. I even called her sister, but she didn't answer either. Eventually, I slumped down on the couch, and waited. I planned how I would get down on my knees and apologize over and over. I would throw myself at her mercy and pray that she would forgive me. The next thing I remember is my phone ringing. I was woken by the noise, and frantically lurched over to answer.

"Emily? Emily, I'm so sorry!"

"Is this Mrs. Smith?"

"Oh, um, yes. I'm sorry."

"I'm Jared, from St. George's Hospital. We have an Emily Smith here. She doesn't have long," The smooth voice was chock-full of sympathy, and as soon as he started speaking, my stomach bottomed out and my heart dropped from my chest through the floor. I hung up in a daze, and rushed to the hospital. Everything after that second was a blur, until I got to her room and saw my Emily lying prone on the bed, surrounded by all kinds of medical equipment. The only color in the room was white. All of a sudden, my legs became boneless, and I slumped. I would have fallen except for a passing nurse. He helped me into the chair next to Emily's bed, where I sobbed and clutched at her hand. She didn't react at all. That night, I cried more tears than ever before. Just before 4 a.m., with the stars shining cold and bright in the dark velvet sky, she ceased breathing. I don't remember anything after that for a long time.

Eventually, I learned that she was on her way home when she swerved to avoid a deer and ran headfirst into a telephone line.

It was somehow fitting, that she her life ended while she was trying to save another. She was always compassionate like that.

I have come back to our stargazing spot at least once a year since Emily died, even after I moved far away. I couldn't bear to live in the same place where she once shone so brightly.

The only thing to tear me from my recollections is the appearance of a star, brighter than the rest, that streaks across the night sky, and it feels like Emily, trying to comfort me and assuage my guilt from beyond the night sky.

The stars and the tears fill my vision equally as I smile.