Once We Were Starlight

My mind wandered, moving between the present and the past. Reaching toward the future. There would be joys and sorrows ahead, gratification to revel in, and challenges that required faith. But if I knew anything, I knew that this life we’d made was worth every fight we might encounter.

Sometimes I still thought about that painting Karys and I had sat next to that day at the Met when the hope that she might be mine again had burned like a small fire in my gut. I imagined how those men depicted had felt as they traveled through the thick fog toward an unknown outcome, the great faith they’d held tight to in order not to turn back, despite their blindness and their fear. Other stories such as theirs had come to mind several times over the years when I’d endeavored toward one risk-laden goal or another, having only my own conviction to guide me. And the knowledge that others had overcome obstacles greater than my own had helped me put my doubts aside and continue forward.

Maybe, my little star had whispered to me one night as we lay in bed, our legs tangled together, that was the whole point of any pain or struggle, including our own—to cast you adrift, to strip you of all your comforts, all your security—and force you to search your naked, defenseless heart for the true purpose of your journey. To cry out into the dark and lonely night, why? And wait in humble surrender for clarity to come.

She made me believe it. But then, she’d always been my light when I tended toward darkness. My hope when I’d leaned into despair. I breathed in her intoxicating scent, pulling her closer, the only woman my arms had ever known. I said a quiet thanks of gratitude for all we’d experienced to arrive at this place—this life—where we had friends, and family, children, and purpose. Once we were starlight. But now, now we were a universe.