Wishing on the Sun

When I was little, my dad used to take us out to see the stars. When we climbed the Blue Ridge mountain range, we saw the Milky Way spill across the night sky. When we visited relatives in the middle of nowhere NY, we lay in the middle of a small town street and looked for Cassiopeia, Orion, and the dippers. At home, in the heart of suburbia (because, despite rumors to the contrary, it does have one), we watched meteors streak the sky over street lamps and headlights.

We didn’t wish on the stars then. We didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny- just the tooth fairy. We looked at the stars because they were beautiful, because they were the sailor’s constants in the sea of daily uncertainty. People come and go, but the stars stay. People change, but constellations are constants.

I changed. And I started wishing on stars. I still didn’t believe in them, but I wanted to -so I wished. And I changed again. The stars were no longer full of wishes for the future- they were the laughter of a girl who was gone. The stars in the night sky weren’t pinpricks of hope for tomorrow- they were memories of things that would never be again. So I loved them even more than I had before.

I needed more then ever, however, something to wish on. A magic, even if I couldn’t really believe in it, to help me make it through the day. I stopped wishing on Orion’s belt buckle, on the gilded edges of Cassiopeia’s chaise, on the water sparkling on dippers’ rims. I started wishing on the sun.

The star we build our lives around. That numbers our days and counts out the hours. The star who always shines somewhere in the world. The star that, on blinking out, will end our need for wishes anyway.