See you in the stars
The little boy was always falling sick. He would lie for days, struggling to breathe.
His parents lay awake at night beside him, fearing each laboured breath he took would be his last.
And in those rare days on which he was able to sit up, all he wanted to do was to see the stars at night.
Before he got sick, each night he would put up a little tantrum, to get his father to take him out to see the night sky.
His eyes big with wonder, he would then point to the stars in the sky while his father, in his gruff voice, would tell him the stories of the star patterns.
Of Orion, the hunter with three stars in his belt and of the great bear.
He would then fall asleep, still in his father’s strong arms, perhaps dreaming about the day he would visit the stars.
* * * * * *
Now his father could no longer take the boy out at night, with the boy being as sick as he was.
But still, when he was well enough to stay awake, the boy would fuss, wanting to see the stars.
Since the boy could not go out, the stars would have to be brought to him.
His father, with a brush in his hand, took to painting the star patterns on the ceiling above the boy’s bed.
With painstaking, precise strokes, he laboured in love, drawing with a special ink which glowed in the dark the stars so loved by his little son.
At night, when it was dark, the boy would see the shining stars in the sky and laugh with wonder.
His sickness forgotten, he would sleep peacefully, again perhaps dreaming about the stars.
His father, with eyes full of tears would watch over the boy, watching his little chest rise and fall with each breath.
“Don’t leave me son,” the father would whisper to the sleeping boy. “Stay with me, don’t leave me for the stars.”
* * * * * *
The man looked out of the observation panel of the space station and marvelled at the beauty of the glorious sight of the earth before him, its beauty taking his breath away however many times he saw it.
He glanced down at the framed photo on the surface of the table which stood next to the observation panel.
His colleagues would ask him if it was a photo of the night sky. He would smile and nod.
But it was not.
It was a photo of the ceiling of his bedroom when he was a child; a photo of his father’s painting.
A photo of a father’s great love for his son; as great as the number of stars in the night sky.
The man stood from his seat and went to the space station’s most powerful telescope.
He adjusted it and looked upon the star.
The star he had named after his late father.
As tears blurred his vision he whispered, “I see you in the stars father, I see you in the stars.”
(Dedicated to my father. I will see you in the stars.)