First Star I See

A Story by Lauren Fricke

There are one hundred billion stars in our galaxy and around ten billion galaxies in our universe. This equates to more than one billion trillion stars, but not a single one catches my attention. Somewhere out there is a lost sailor frantically scanning the sky for a way back home. A scientist hunches over his telescope in anticipation for the next groundbreaking discovery, and maybe, he’ll be the one to find it. A child leans out of her window, eyes shut and lips silent, a wish dangling from their stillness. But I’m not like them. I don’t place my bets with the stars because the only star worth wishing on is right beside me.

Her head is propped up on my arm, and she lounges on a wool blanket. The material had swirled around in the washing machine only hours ago, cleaning away the germs and any other parasite that dared to threaten her already crippled health. I had then laid it out, carefully smoothing away each wrinkle in preparation for her touch. The food before us was planned days ago, every decision made with her preferences in mind, and I had switched her flower bouquet at least six times. How could I pick just one when she deserves so many more?

The drive here was nerve-wracking. I second-guessed every aspect of our night yet again, but the look on her face when I removed the blindfold shut down every worry. Yes, her glowing eyes said, You’ve done enough.

We spoke for hours, taking breaks only to sample the delicate treats stored in the picnic basket. There were petit fours, miniature cupcakes, chocolate truffles, and snowflakes formed from delicate sugar. I delighted in offering her a small taste of each so that my eyes could drink in the happiness as it filled her face. It was a rare sight and not one that I could pass up. It was the snowflakes, though, that caused me pain because the only thing I saw reflected in her eyes was longing. I knew what that meant.

No one ever pays attention to the life they’re living until it is taken away. We don’t count the minutes we have in the future, only the ones in the past. A mother treasures her child’s first step and first word, and a brother recounts his first fight with a new sibling. However, a doctor also remembers the first patient that he couldn’t save, and the initial diagnosis will flash through his thoughts, the journey will weigh on his soul, and the final realization will haunt his dreams. It is the patient, the smiling face of that little girl, which will forever be tattooed on his heart.

I am not a doctor, but I remember every step of this never ending journey the way a doctor would. I watched as her face lost its color and the angles became more pronounced. Her hair began to fall in tufts onto my jacket, and it would show up strewn across the seats in my car. Bit by bit, the skin on her hands became dry and cracked as if the very life was being withdrawn from her tiny body.

Though I couldn’t protect her from the inevitable storm so many years ago, I hold her now and cradle her shaking hands between my own. She has curled up beside me on the blanket, head on my shoulder, and her eyes are shut gently. I take the moment to admire her beauty and the calm that has settled over her features. Though she has always accepted her fate, I have not, and sleep has not come easily as of late. But for the first time in as long as I can remember, my eyes flutter shut of their own accord, content.

There is a slight movement, and I feel her lean toward me. “Travis,” she whispers in my ear. “Thank you.” The raw emotion causes my heart to pick up, and I turn toward her voice, basking in its beauty. It is my substance, my life source, and I can’t imagine a day without hearing the soft, innocent flutter of it. But one day it will cease to exist, and that day is rolling toward us, snowballing faster and faster.

Her body is small and frail; it is too easy for me to wrap my arms around, holding her safe and tight in my embrace. She is no longer strong enough to support herself and, much as I yearn to fight this battle for her, I cannot. So we depend upon the thin, clear tube running down her shirt to the heavy bag beside us. The weight of it crushes the blades of grass beneath, damaging their dreams and hopes as it has mine. It is the only thing keeping her here, stationary in our world and my life, but I hate it. I hate that it can do what I cannot.

I can’t save her. My will is not enough to beat the illness inside that has taken her hair, the long, flowing locks. It took her strength, leaving her to stumble through life feeble and sickly. But above all else, it stole her time. It stole our time. Her future with me has been cut in half and then in half again. We no longer have a lifetime to watch movies, laugh at cheesy jokes, eat pizza, and share secrets. We have only days.

The sky before us is slowly turning dark, and the stars have begun to emerge from behind their veils. I watch as one twinkles into view, shining brighter and stronger with each moment. It’s fighting for a chance, the opportunity to be seen and loved, and it reminds me of the girl leaning beside me. It has her spirit, her will to live.

If I wished on stars, I’d cry. Tears would pour from my soul until they had filled the crevices of every broken, shattered heart, including mine. They would flood this world until the sicknesses plaguing us drowned and released their clasps on our loved ones. If I wished on stars, I’d scream. Every night, I would stand beneath them and yell, shouting louder each time until they heard and had no choice but to listen. My voice would go hoarse, but it wouldn’t matter. If I wished on stars, I’d pick that star. I’d ask for my love to be strong enough, for it to fight the cancer radiating throughout her body so that the heart beating inside her chest would never stop.

I’d ask it to save my little sister’s life.

But I don’t wish on stars. I don’t place life-threatening burdens among objects in the sky because while they can watch, the stars can’t heal. They can’t provide the comfort or strength I need to help her win this battle. So I don’t wish on them. I wish on her.