The Stars

Where I came from, we didn’t have stars. Well, I suppose we did, but thanks to the smog and the blinding lights of the neighboring city, I never had visual evidence of my own. As a child I saw plane lights blinking through the darkened sky; I wished on them instead, pretending they were shooting stars. It satiated my desire because I was young — I didn’t know any better, and I didn’t have any other options available to me.

Then, I moved away. In my mind, a three hour drive wasn’t much distance at all, I had watched television for longer periods than that. I learned quickly, though, that heading three hours away from the city that never sleeps meant so much. Stars enjoy a quieter, darker atmosphere to feel cozy and accepted, it’s no wonder we had never met before then.

My first year of college was my introduction to the stars. Like most of my first encounters with others, I was awkward and timid. I looked up and stared, mouth agape, gawking at a sight I had never been able to revel in before then. If the stars could speak, I’m sure they would have asked me to stop, it was rude of me, after all, to ogle so much. But in that moment, I couldn’t look away. In that moment, I felt enlightened, protected, and amazed.

Among my feelings of unrelenting joy, however, I felt a twinge of anger as well. I felt that eighteen years of my life had been wasted, all because I never had the ability to appreciate the little sparkles floating high above me. That vexation vanished quickly. I was too much in awe to be angry. One fateful night of glimpsing and gazing at the glimmering balls of gas in the sky was all I needed to feel at peace. Finally, the spell had been broken, all because I decided to look up and truly see.