How to Draw a Star
Point 3
Start at the bottom of the second line and draw a line up and to the left. It is hard: gravity will try and pull you down.
A sliver of the waning moon hangs over the firehouse across the street and the distant stars are caught in a haze from BP Oil’s smoke stack.
“He’ll be alright,” says my daughter and I nod because my voice seems to be caught up in the haze. She links her arm in mine and we walk down the street to where she has parked her red Toyota. The tears on her face glisten in the glow of the streetlamps. She was crying when I walked in the door a few short minutes ago. She is crying still.
My own eyes cannot seem to form tears. The sorrowful droplets are stuck in my throat, spillage from the icicles running up my spine and gripping my heart. I stare at the night sky, seeking—what? Solace? Hope? Absolution? How many times did I pray for peace in our chaotic lives?
Not this, I breathe. Not this.
She was crying when I walked in the door a few short minutes ago.
“We need to hurry,” my daughter says. She unlocks the car doors with her key fob and I slide into the passenger side and pull the seat belt taut.
He was wearing a seat belt. Thank God, he was wearing a seat belt.
We drive up I-95, the dark night suspending us in a time capsule between before and after, the holy silence enveloping us. I shut my eyes against the barrage of headlights.
We can never go back.
My cell phone rings, the screen lighting up with the name of my best friend. I press, “accept” and her voice enters our sacred space.
“I called the house,” she says. “Allen told me.”
I begin to stammer out what my daughter has told me of a pick-up truck and a red light and Ron’s white Taurus, the screeching of brakes , and the crashing of metal. My daughter turns off I-95 and the lights of the hospital shatter the darkness.
Finally, I begin to cry.
