It was December, and I’d somehow managed to convince mom to let me visit her house. For two weeks. I just had to go home before the 23th.
I’d just arrived and twelve minutes later she was opening an article about an Apollo astronaut talking about his experience there. She scrolled down to the part where the man talked about when he was on the far side of the moon. He said ‘the sky is just awash with stars’, so much that it looked like ‘just a sheet of white.’ “It’s fascinating,” she said, and her eyes shone with a tiny reflection of innumerable stars.
“It might not be as impressive, but I think the sky here in Ramsey is clear enough for a little bit of stargazing.”
Her cheeks dimpled adorably.
“Sounds like a plan.”
We went that night. I drove us until houses were just lines of bulky claws protruding from the ground.
When I looked up, it was an explosion of stars.
I’d seen this scene back at home, and I knew she’d seen it countless times already (you couldn’t live in towns like ours and never lost yourself in the immensity of the infinite and beyond) but this time was different.
We talked about movies and homeworks and science and fanfictions, interrupted here and there with deafening silence of the stars. There were times for words, and there were times for just… this. The breeze, the warmth, and the millions glimmering lights above us.
“Some of these are the last lights of dead bodies that used to live a million light years ago.”
Her fingers touched mine and I held on to them like a lifeline.
I already wished December could last forever.
"The sky is just awash with stars when you’re on the far side of the Moon, and you don’t have any sunlight to cut down on the lower intensity, dimmer stars. You see them all, and it’s all just a sheet of white."