Month: March 2021

It really is the little things
that change our lives, the way they flow,
and the world, how its passing or endurance
depend on this choice or that. The insignificant
classroom in the small town where our little lives
(stifling, but prescribed, and so far-followed we
could see the back covers closing on our little stories)
collided:
So many lives, their careful design, required reconstruction
from the settling dust of that brief moment. And I thought,
“Well, that was unexpected,” and then we adapted to the
different story we’d chosen, the endings and beginnings
our unsought meeting created, the canvases and new paints
we’d given ourselves, the new chapters we’d undertaken
to author, but the little things never stop redirecting the flow,
do they? I mean, we and the world, we’re never finally formed
and there is no path except the one behind us; knowing this,
we should be wiser, more watchful, tender in our reach
and open to surprise and surrender. Control is an illusion;
the stories never end the way you expect. All around us,
everywhere, little choices are made by the known and unknown,
the seen and hidden, the near and distant: look how one person’s lie
leads to so much death; how another’s sacrifice resurrects hope;
how a stranger’s small kindness alters a life; how a tiny dog’s nuzzle
eases deep grief; how, years later, a letter arrives, begging forgiveness;
how one person crosses a narrow aisle to cast an unexpected vote, and
just like that, the whole world is given another little chance to endure.
Stones roll away, light shines, and we see a way forward we hadn’t imagined.

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

We’ve had a week or more of cloudy, damp days, and high winds, all of it typical of late March weather, but eventually it just felt pervasively gloomy. The living room painting and furniture rearranging and bookcase-moving and everything else triggered by the urge to re-nest is almost complete. I always hang prisms high in the clerestory windows and–finally–this morning, intermittent flashes of sunlight rewarded us with dazzling rainbows scattered around the newly-brightened room. They rekindled my hope and joy.

I’m not certain how my fascination with prisms began, but I think the origin may have been the film, Pollyanna, based on the book by Eleanor H. Porter. 

The film debuted when I was 5; I read the book later. Disney, as always, deviated from the original story in many often-inexplicable ways, but the young actress, Hayley Mills, brought the story to life for me and, of course, the book’s overly-saccharine, moralistic language was somewhat updated in the film, even though the setting is true to Porter’s 1913, small New England town. 

I suppose the visuals of the prism scene captivated me, and, in my mind, the way the bright rainbows also elementally transformed the bedridden and grouchy Mr. Pendleton (or Pendergast, in the film) were forever connected to their magic.

In a lot of the books I loved as a child, the young protagonist, through her own transformation, also transformed the adults in her life. These books offered me the first insights that healing and maturing were lifelong pursuits; maybe I associate that idea with prisms, too. They unfailingly create deep joy and invite a contemplative mood.

Certainly, every problem has its refractions, and what at first may seem a single troubling issue or one lacking a solution can always be viewed again through other lenses. And, once new perceptions are welcomed and entertained, we’re often led to change and grow. (Or not, as I always admit. Choices matter, and change requires commitment and, often, years of effort.) I think a lot of “prism-thinking” is happening in our world right now; some are willing to endure the hard work of pursuing transformative answers and others are resisting, for many reasons. (I wrote a children’s book about these very ideas, titled The Rare, Tiny Flower. It’s being illustrated by the talented Quim Torres, and will be published by Tra Publishing in January, 2022.)

A lot of the protagonists I loved as a child saw new possibilities for the way life could be lived, individually and in community, and showed flashes of feistiness when adults resisted what the girls finally “knew” to be true. I expect the authors were advocates of prism-thinking themselves. Consider Burnett’s Mary in The Secret Garden; L’Engle’s Meg in A Wrinkle in Time; Smith’s Francie in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; and Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables. Many of my early, lasting role models.

The other and profound lesson I derived from Pollyanna was her orientation to gratitude, coupled with her prism-thinking. She played what she called The Glad Game, learned from her father, which invited one to see and bear life’s struggles and sorrows, but to balance their presence by opening to noticing life’s blessings as well: Yes, it’s been rainy, but green is happening everywhere and the gardens are growing. Yes, voting is being suppressed by people who fear change, but restrictive laws are being challenged in courts all over the country and a voting rights bill has passed in the House. Yes, we’re looking at new lockdowns because of disease variants, but we have masks, vaccines, new medicines, and ways to defeat the virus if we all pull together. If. We need prism-thinkers more than ever, but we need action coupled with gratitude and balance as well.

The Glad Game is one reason Pollyanna’s name became a euphemism for laughable candy-brained thinkers, shallow goody-goodies unable to see the real and present darkness that threatens our world. I don’t think that’s a fair judgement of Pollyanna, but cynics–often just bullies by another name–seem to be granted more deference than prism-thinkers for their fault-finding criticisms and opinions, probably because it’s natural to fear retaliatory verbal attacks. Far easier to agree, say nothing, and dodge the nasty ballistics. We’ve certainly seen where that’s gotten us as a country. 

My childhood role models and heroines wouldn’t stand for it. And actually, each of them had feisty moments of confronting the perpetually oppressive and pessimistic, with strength and dignity. They, and their creators, taught me to stand up, speak out, and be proud of critical thinking that is divergent, open to change, co-created, and inclusive in its benefits. And to work at perceiving and giving thanks in all things for the goodness and gifts that co-exist in the world and in each of us. 

Today seems an auspicious day: It’s Palm Sunday, which for many signals the beginning of the deep spiritual journey called Holy Week, ending on Easter Sunday. Today is also the second day of Passover celebrations; tonight will be the second Seder, and Passover continues to April 4. And at Full Moon Cottage, we’re also celebrating the March Full Moon. 🙂 Blessings on all your celebrations and efforts to deepen your humanity. Hang a prism: heal, change, grow, create, and keep at it.

I also wanted to let you know of this Zoom gathering on Monday, April 12, sponsored by one of my favorite independent bookstores, Kismet, and in support of National Poetry Month. I was extremely honored to have my poem, In The Time of Pandemic/And the People Stayed Home, included in this anthology: Together in a Sudden Strangeness: America’s Poets Respond to the Pandemic, edited by the inimitable Alice Quinn. Several of the poets, myself, and Alice Quinn will be part of this event, and we would be so honored to have you join us!
Events | Kismet Books (kismetbookshop.com);
Crowdcast Registration: https://www.crowdcast.io/e/togetherinasuddenstrangen

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

There have always been ways to hurt
beyond words. There are fists and sticks,
and stones and bones and bombs and guns–
so many guns–and sharpened knives, and weapons
heavy and blunt, stunning and surprising, fierce and
quick. Bullet-pierced bodies falling to floors, to doorways
that coldly receive them; it should be our arms embracing
the sacred, strange, and shining others, the known, the
mysterious all we are made and meant to love; christ, we
have hurt enough; haven’t we hurt enough? Count the dead.
Violence is easy; shooting from fear, slicing from pain: hurting
from hurting. Let us finally learn the infinite ways to translate
our rage into beauty. It was love that chanced us here, just once
and now, able to choose the arduous art of union, compassionate
partners in all of our dark misery, able to pause, to turn, to change,
revolving our pain through other imagined instars, shedding the
the urge to hurt and rage, becoming who we fully are: artists,
called to create the ways we may heal and love beyond words.

Facebook Post
March 20, 2020

Dear Friends,

We’ve been assailed this week by texts, messages, personal attacks, Friend Requests, phone calls, everything…I’ve kept my friend’s list tight and deleted requests from strangers. This is my safe place.

Today, as I feared, an advertising firm contacted me to use my words as a “commentary” behind a “we’re the good guys here to help you” TV spot for Johnson and Johnson/Tylenol. I haven’t made a cent from this and they didn’t offer any either, for the record.

I spoke with their rep to clarify and sent this letter. I don’t have an agent; I don’t have an attorney; I have real-life family members and friends putting their lives at risk right this moment because of our Administration’s woeful preparation and a Congress with members more interested in selling their stocks for profit than helping our healthcare workers and people…

So, I’m re-posting this letter here as, I HOPE, proof I wrote it and had witnesses. Insurance.

Thanks, now back to what’s important…

Hi, (Person who shall go unnamed),

I understand that you and your team are trying hard to do good in a troubled world, and using your many gifts and the powerful platform of various media to convey that message of concern, but I don’t think my words are a good match for this project. It doesn’t seem to be inspired by purely altruistic intent; it seems designed to sell Tylenol and promote Johnson & Johnson, and that doesn’t feel like it honors the spirit of my words and the ways they’ve offered comfort and love, which was my intention and hope when I set them free.

 Conversely, I’m very happy with the ways a variety of artists and musicians are being inspired by these words to create and collaborate with the poem to further touch and comfort people’s hearts, and to inspire them to survive–and flourish–in courage and peace.

I do wish you well and pray for your safety and good health. And I am very grateful for your integrity in contacting me before using my words, as others have not. We are all finding our way into and through this mystery, and never alone in doing so.

Be well and gentle peace,

Kitty O’Meara

March 20, 2021:

When people say they would “love” to have their words “go viral,” I like to share this…it’s like this (which was only one week after “and the people” was innocuously posted on Facebook), x 1000, for months and months. 

This post reminds me of the time’s fear, confusion, anger, and wonder. I mean THE virus, not mine, and how adjusting to, or at least riding the waves of that, was compounded by being shot into space by “going viral.” 

I’m still very grateful for how this absolutely-once-in-a-lifetime amazement led me to so many gifted artists, to so many people doing so much good in the face of terror and mystery, to so many people making immense sacrifices, to kind and gentle people—who save us, every day—and how the entire experience isolated and burnished for me, again and profoundly, how blessed I am in my partner, family, and friends. Gratitude will always be the encompassing theme of this year, for me. But it is that for all of my life as well.

Far more important than “going viral” is the recollection of our collective experience. What a year, what a time we’ve endured. I know it’s not over, but let’s take time to sit with what we’ve survived, and honor what nobility, strength, humor, love, and courage we’ve summoned, supported, shared, and offered each other and the world this year. Look at the difference in our leadership and the issues we’re exposing to the light of moral and legal scrutiny, a painful, necessary debridement of our national thinking—unconscious and conscious—and an analysis of policies that enforce what must be opposed and altered.

I think this is what an Enlightenment feels like: a struggle between what must die and what must be born if we are to survive and thrive. I know we have to love our way through it as authentically as we can, or what we create will not be new or inclusive, which means all, not “all the groups who think like me.”

We know hard times will always be with us; we know the virus and its variations, and climate change, and all the human struggles for power and possession will go on, but I hope we can reflect on what we have accomplished and realized this year, in spite of soooo much resistance and fear-fueled ignorance…This is a time of epic struggles and we made it through the first dark forest. Let’s enjoy—wisely, safely—a bit of light and sweet breezes, and stock up on all the strength and healing and re-commitment, and joy we need to enter the next dark woods. Together.

I don’t know the ending; I know I likely won’t be present when it arrives, but I’m so honored to be in your merry company and presence as we imagine and create the best possible Earth for all who live and move and have their being on our whirling blue sphere in the expanding, mysterious, and wonderful universe.

We can do this if we choose to live into the mighty spectacular Yes, allowing it to unfold and show us the way.

Great and gentle peace to all; I’m off to the trail for a long and grateful walk.

Happy Equinox! Seek and tend the balance you need to shine the gifts you came to share!

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

Full Moon Cottage has been having some “work done” on her interior. We finally settled on the brighter paint colors we’d been searching for–I think–and are finishing up the painting in the living room before moving into the kitchen. The goal is to complete all of this before the gardening season kicks in and–if yesterday’s snowfall is any indication–we’ll make it without rushing. We envisioned a sweet slow dance of a project to get us over the last winter hurdle to spring.

Sunlight streams into these rooms from three directions, a blessing and a curse, as Adrian Monk would say. The light is extremely beneficial during darker months, a blessing, but it also makes picking out paint colors an immense and mercurial task for both of us, because we’re also dealing with an old oak wood floor and a walnut-stained ceiling, and we don’t always agree on the undertones we’re detecting. Now it’s yellow; now it’s brown; now it’s orange, green, reddish…is that blue? A curse.

And when we finally settle on a shade and apply the sample, the light and colors shift, sending us back to the paint store, masked, gloved, confused, and considering the option of changing our identities, driving to a new town, and starting over in a home with well-established coordinating paint colors. Might be easier. This is why we stayed with our former colors for 14 years. But hey, life’s a dance, and it’s fun to try new steps…right?

I keep using the second-person-plural-nominative-case-pronoun “we,” as though we’re sharing the labor equally. This is not the case. We started as equal partners in this decorating dance, but then a heavy door, one that perhaps had not been set in an OSHA-approved place and position (never mind by whom), fell as I passed. It scraped down my right calf, leaving it intact but creating the most dramatic bruise I’ve certainly ever had or possibly seen. “Oh darn,” I didn’t say, but I did provide a spontaneous and sensationally colorful kind of poetry as the pain registered. You had to be there.

I don’t think a blood vessel was left unsevered. It was like looking at those nebulae photos from the Hubble spacecraft…and not one damn color worked for the walls or wainscoting. But it did match our recent and stunning sunrises, although I think you’ll agree the sunrises offered preferable views.

So, I’ve been sitting out the decorating dance with my leg raised and iced, then heated, regaling Phillip with suggestions and tips and amusing (yes they are) bon mots as he climbs the enormous ladder and does the actual painting. Well, truly, we’ve also had interesting conversations, or I’ve read to him, or we’ve listened to podcasts, or music. Last Saturday, we watched The Gay Divorcee and then couldn’t get The Continental out of our heads for the rest of the weekend. Today, we watched a recording of the Broadway production of The King and I. Pretty sure Shall We Dance? will replace The Continental as an ear-worm. Or maybe they’ll form a mental terpsichorean duet, and we’ll both be lunatics by tomorrow. Not a huge stretch at this point.

I think I’ll be ready to join the dance and paint again by Friday, crazy or not, and I’ve chosen two accent colors to sample, so if you hear desperate screams pitifully howled from the direction of Full Moon Cottage, never mind; eventually, the light will change and all will be well. Or we’ll just pull down the shades, dim the light, and dance.

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

For a year we lived slowly. We were alone together, and nothing was lost.
Not a thing was lost. We lived every moment; every moment was lived,
and time was not wasted. Life offered lessons learned only in darkness.
Some days we cried together; these were healing days. Sorrow’s voice
must sing and we must listen; there was much to learn. In silence, we heard
the Earth cry out: how we gave her the saddest eyes, and how we broke her heart.

Every day, we created something new: the ways we moved through the day,
the ways we moved through life, the ways we moved and breathed. We looked
for new teachers and heard different music. Everything was strange. Life hurt;
it was stern, such hard steps to balance. Again then again. We rested more often
and deeply, or we didn’t sleep at all. We didn’t sleep at all. In silence, we heard
the Earth cry out: how we gave her the saddest eyes, and how we broke her heart.

The days led the dance and we followed. We followed; this was the greatest lesson:
to receive the day and follow its holiness as it was and as it always is, how it moves,
how we are moved. The year ends. Steadying slowly, how bright the light around
the moments we live. Let the Earth dance and follow her lead. Heal her, heal her;
create, and see her joy. They shine; how her eyes shine. Every moment is lived and
time is not wasted. Nothing is lost. Love endures. This was the year that saved us.

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

We were waiting, we were waiting so long that we’d forgotten
the animal pleasure of deep embrace, the smell of other people
and beckoning cafes spiced with strangeness, the comfort of corner booths,
and snowfall under streetlights, the lure of aged books on shelves, of touching
things unconfined, glowing with mystery, safely dangerous, gently tempting and open.

We were waiting, we were waiting so long that we’d forgotten
how to cross spaces, the language of greeting, the harmony of thoughts
begun by one–fusing–finished by another, the onrush and uprush of laughter, the ease
of improvised, delighted life; we’d become diligent disciples of monotony, of things done
in steps, after a year of waiting and forgetting, of yearning, and forgetting how to yearn.

We were waiting, we were waiting so long, that we’d forgotten
the surprise of circling geese, and budding trees, and plants piercing upward, their scent,
the sweet afterbirth of things green and translucent, the homeward music of spring, of
neighbors and nest-building, the innocence of blue skies, rainstorms, and silver-splashed puddles.
the call from life to our animal hearts: scatter the seeds of everything blessed and beautiful…

And then,
we remembered: what follows disease is either death or healing, and after each comes
the hard work of sowing seeds and tending them, of holding wonder to our grateful lips.

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

There are losses that tear the fabric of our lives in two,
serrated edges and ruptured threads that years, a lifetime,
cannot mend but awkwardly. Here is one such scar I carry
always, and here, another. Holes we learn to sidestep;
we each have many, these interrupted expectations of
enduring love or love’s enduring presence, these partings
that break us wide on the wide and open brilliant stage. The world
allows such grief, briefly holding space for the depth and damage
while the alterations shudder through our lives and settle, seismic
shifts changing us elementally, creating new steps in our forward dance.

But clocks tick; glances divert; watches, feet, and fingers are tapped:
Back to the business of life, its earnest and undead perfection. We adjust,
merge with life’s traffic and dance. The world turns, and turns away,
calling us healed. It cannot bear close or long encounter with the scrutinized
pause. Acceleration is all; there isn’t time for tears that do not dry, wounds
that remain, and the mystery of ghosts who visit the shadowed alleys of memory.
Let go. Let go. Turn, and turn away. On to the edge of that grave we thankfully
will not grieve but occupy, the panicked dance halted, perfectly unexamined.

And there is sorrow the world calls small, carried as pain in the heart,
on the heart, a tender bruise say, the size of a small cat who one day
appeared at the door of our life and stayed, changing everything
in small ways that went unnoticed, except in our dance; its new
improvisations spoke of a deeper joy. But grief at its passing? No;
it makes of us unwanted mirrors. The solace of rushing cannot be
too earnestly pursued. Come, turn, and turn away; do something.

And so, ignored and unexplored, small losses, all sorrows accrue.
A tumor of the brain finally presses on the spine; our slowly-altered
dance one day becomes grotesque in its awkwardness, we tilt and
spin, one-eyed and wincing, comical, unhuman. The heart breaks.
The small child notices. Why does that man halt and wobble so
crookedly? See how he falls behind? Do we laugh or cry? I want
to help him stand; I want to hold him. We must stop to name the
suffering, to steady his trembled dance, to tell him he is loved.

Hush, dear; he’s one who had small things to grieve and did not
surrender, never to grief for something as small as a cat. He is heroic;
do you understand? Feelings devour our time. Never indulge. Look
how he still moves forward and on. So proudly. We honor deep scars
and their making for a moment; small sorrows mean nothing. Clocks
are ticking loudly; on we go. We have things to do, so much to do.
Denial is the better way, or where would our weeping end?
Back to business; time is passing. Turn, and turn away, my dear.

This week has been a year at Full Moon Cottage. The sunlight and its warmth, the birdsong and the woodpeckers’ staccato rhythms, the receding sparkle of snow, and the sweet spring call of the world to plant, nurture new life and drink in its perfumes–all of it is healing our hearts as they adjust to the loss of our darling Fergus. But as people who honor the rhythms and necessary tending of our healing, we resist the insistent need of our culture to “just get over it.”

Fergus mattered, his leaving matters, and all of the lessons he shared need our deep love and exploration as well; our sorrow, too, is a gift, and uncultivated gifts offered in our lives, no matter how painful their tilling and digging, leave us shallow, anxious, and less able to extend compassion when we encounter others meeting their losses and necessary times of healing. As the figure in the poem suggests (I hope), we cripple our humanity and deny its depths when we ignore and compound our small griefs, because grief is never insignificant and the treasures it holds as we make meaning of it can change our lives and change the world. Sorrow, like joy, needs to bloom to its fulfillment. Don’t fear your weeping; meet and embrace it. Weeping creates a necessary human music; it eases heart pain; and it does end.

Please grant yourself the time you need to sift through all the “small losses” of your life and wait for their gold to be perceived, to shine and, in the perfect time of healing, to mend your heart. Peace and joy will return; gently flowing through our awareness and spirits as our sorrow and its gifts integrate with who we are now. Balance can be restored because we’ve allowed grief’s imbalance its voice. So much of healing is listening; how lovely, I think, that “silent” and “listen” use precisely the same letters to communicate the vital medicine we must take to be fully human. Always be willing to indulge in silence and listening. 🙂 Great gentle peace in all your joys and your sorrows.

© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

(The moment we met. I was video taping hundreds of blackbirds, singing their autumn farewell and heard a little peep behind me on the bridge…I told him if he followed me home, he could stay, but it was chilly, and he was so tiny, so I carried him bome, made a nest for him in the art room downstairs, and waited for Phillip to come home from school, hoping I could ease him into the idea of adding–at that time–a fifth cat to our household. Happily, Phillip was as quickly captivated as I had been. Forever.)

It seems our sweet Fergus has chosen this time of returning light to change worlds, so we’re setting aside almost everything else to be with this parting in our family. He found me, followed me home, made it clear he wasn’t leaving, took his profound place in our hearts, and will always rest in them.

Images don’t capture spirits, and his was sweetness and light, but with a core of steel. He’d been abandoned at birth, marked as feral and left outside his first year, which led to respiratory struggles he’s dealt with every year of his brief 10 years on Earth. He’s always felt like a fragile bird wrapped in downy fluff. He has been a brave and charming fellow who liked to rest in baskets, drawers, bags, chairs, with his siblings, and in our lives, and our letting go is all the harder for the grace and delight he’s blessed us with, and only left us craving more. We will grieve; we will adjust; we will miss him forever.

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© Copyright of all visual and written materials on The Daily Round belongs solely to Catherine M. O’Meara, 2011-Present. Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited, without the author’s written approval. No one is authorized to use Catherine O’Meara’s copyrighted material for material gain without the author’s engagement and written permission. All other visual, written, and linked materials are credited to their authors. Thank you, and gentle peace.

{This is a little story I wrote several years ago, for children grieving losses that aren’t often addressed in age-appropriate and creative texts. The pandemic has taken so many of our beloveds; we know several families who have parted from dear ones through windows, screens, and phone calls. The loss can seem unbearable. Of course, we grieve together in our world; there is no other way, but children are so very sensitive to partings and grief. I believe the healing power of stories can speak to their seeking hearts. I offer my little story here for any comfort it can provide anyone you love, but especially little ones in their sorrow, and ask that, if you share it, you do so with my name–and love–attached. Respectfully, and in gentle peace, be well and safe.}

Papa Charlie and I went camping at the lake.
The pine trees and the waves whispered secrets back and forth.
The firelight snapped and made the shadows dance.
The moon curved like a smile and the stars were very bright.
They were red, and blue, and yellow, and white.

“A family of stars is called a constellation,” said Papa Charlie.
I searched the sky. “There’s the Big Dipper!”
“Good for you, Jack,” said Papa Charlie.
I smiled. “You and I, and Grandma Tess, and Mom, and Dad are a constellation.”
“Yes, we are, Jack,” laughed Papa Charlie.

I pointed and said, “There’s a W.”
“That’s Cassiopeia,” said Papa Charlie. “‘W,’ to remind us we should always ask WHY and keep learning.”
“You’re a good teacher, Papa Charlie,” I said.

“We’re looking at light that started its journey hundreds, even thousands of years ago,” said
Papa Charlie. “Starlight takes a long, long time to travel to Earth, Jack. Even after the star dies and is no longer there, we can look up and see its light coming to us, shining in the darkness. It is like seeing memories of the stars.”

An owl hooted beside the sleepy lake.
I yawned and Papa Charlie coughed.
The fire grew tired and dreamed its orange dreams beneath white ashes.

“Why do people die, Papa Charlie?”
“That’s a good question, Jack. Sometimes the answer to ‘why’ is a mystery.”
“Will we die?” I asked.
“Yes.” Papa Charlie nodded, adding a log to the fire.
“But our light will keep shining,” I said, “like the memories of stars.”
“You’re a good teacher, Jack,” said Papa Charlie.

“Does everything die, Papa Charlie?”
“No, Jack. Love doesn’t die.”

We sat close together and watched the stars.

Papa Charlie carried me to the tent.
The wind sang lullabies.
We all went to sleep: Papa Charlie, the pine trees, the lake, the fire, the wind, the owl, the stars, and me.

After that night, Papa Charlie was very sick.

When I went to visit him, I brought my books and we would learn together.
We learned about birds, and dogs, and bridges, and oceans.
“I still like learning about stars the best,” I told him.
“Me, too,” said Papa Charlie. He held me close and I heard his heart beating.

One day Papa Charlie died.

In the cemetery, the stones were gray.
Our umbrellas and coats and boots were black.
And everywhere, everywhere, white snowflakes whirled around us.

I hugged Grandma Tess. Then, Mom and Dad hugged us, too.
“We are a constellation,” I said.
Our tears glittered like stars.

There is so much I want to understand.

I miss Papa Charlie. I miss learning with him. I miss being still next to him.
I look up at the stars every night. They are red, and blue, and yellow, and white.
I will always see starlight that started its journey the night Papa Charlie and I went camping.

“I can see your light, Papa Charlie,” I say.
“It is always coming to me, shining in the darkness, carrying memories.”
I will keep learning.
And I will remember.
Love doesn’t die.”