The Star Collector

1. The Inheritance of Light

I found the first star in a peanut butter jar behind Grandma’s flour canister.

It pulsed cobalt blue, warm as a heartbeat against my palm.

"That’s Andromeda, 1967," Grandma whispered, materializing in the kitchen doorway like a ghost. Dementia usually erased yesterday, but stars? She remembered every one. "Caught her in a net made of my wedding veil."

Her attic held hundreds more:

Ball jars humming with trapped constellations

Whispering supernovas in Tupperware

A cracked teacup holding a swirling nebula

"Why collect stars, Grandma?"

She winked, suddenly lucid. "Because people forget to look up, child."

That night, Orion’s belt dimmed in his jar. Grandma forgot my name.

2. The Catching Lesson

"Stars are falling memories," Grandma explained during a midnight meteor shower. "When someone forgets joy, it falls. Catch it before it dies."

She handed me a butterfly net lined with her hair. "Aim for the gold ones. Those are first kisses."

I swung at a falling ember. Missed.

"Feel, don’t chase!" she scolded. "They’re drawn to longing."

I remembered my first love—Sam’s lips tasting of raspberries. A golden star streaked into my net. Grandma sealed it in jam jar #312.

"Good girl," she breathed. "Now Sam’s memory is safe forever."

A chill shot through me. "Safe from what?"

But she’d vanished into fog again. "Who’s Sam?"

3. The Cost of Constellations

Grandma declined fast. She fed stars like pets:

Sapphire stars (lost friendships) = oatmeal

Crimson stars (childhood wonder) = apple slices

Violet stars (forgotten grief) = Earl Grey tea

But as she forgot more, the stars dimmed. I caught replacements obsessively:

A silver star from a widow’s abandoned piano

A jade star from a retired astronaut’s unused telescope

One midnight, I found her eating Andromeda’s light like cotton candy. The star screamed silently as she consumed it.

"Stop!" I grabbed the jar.

"Hungry," she whimpered. "The dark is cold."

Her eyes held galaxies—and terrifying hunger.

4. The Keeper’s Ledger

Behind the water heater, I found Grandma’s star ledger:

"Astrid’s Star-Catching Rules:

1. Feed stars human memories (they starve otherwise)

2. Never consume a star (it consumes YOU)

*3. Balance the sky: one star caught = one memory returned*"

Photographs paperclipped to pages revealed Grandma’s sacrifices:

A 1945 photo of her dancing → Clipped to a star labeled "V-E Day Joy"

My mother’s baby shoes → Fixed to "Elara’s First Steps"

The final entry broke me:

"Gave: Memory of Jacob’s proposal

Caught: "Stillborn Son’s Only Breath" star for Clara (neighbor)

Balance: Clara remembers her baby. I forget my greatest happiness."

Grandma hadn’t just collected stars.

She’d traded her memories to heal others.

5. The Unpaid Debt

Mrs. Gable confirmed it at the nursing home. "After my baby died, your grandma appeared with this." She opened a locket—inside swirled a tiny pearl star. "She said, 'His first breath wasn’t lost. It’s dancing.'"

"What did it cost her?" I asked.

"She stumbled leaving. Forgot where she lived for a week."

The ledger’s last page held a dried dandelion and a warning:

*"The sky reclaims its debts. 60 years of star-catching due at my death. All memories I saved will vanish unless a new Keeper takes my place.*

Forgive me, Elara."

Outside, stars began falling like dying fireflies.

6. The Final Meteor Shower

Grandma’s final night, the sky tore open. Meteors blazed toward her cottage—the sky’s collectors, coming to reclaim what she’d stolen.

"How do I save them?" I begged Grandma.

She touched my cheek, lucid one last time. "Become the bridge. Not the cage."

I ran to the attic with her net. Instead of catching stars, I did the unthinkable:

Smashed Sam’s star → Golden light shot to Ohio, where he suddenly recalled our kiss

Opened the stillborn’s star → Pearl light soared to Mrs. Gable’s locket, warming like a sigh

Uncorked Andromeda → Cobalt light rejoined the constellation after 56 years

The meteor shower paused as I released every star. Grandma’s ledger glowed in my hands.

"Your turn," I told the sky. "Take your memories back from me."

Epilogue: The Keeper of Sky

I inherited Grandma’s cottage—and her role. But I collect differently now:

I catch falling stars only until dawn, then release them

I guide grievers to "find" their own lost stars in night skies

The ledger holds new entries: "Returned: Clara’s laughter star. Cost: None."

Grandma’s ghost tends her garden some nights. She doesn’t remember me, but she points to constellations with pride.

Last Tuesday, a boy brought me a jar. "My dog’s star fell. Can you keep it safe?"

I helped him weave a net from his old leash. We caught the amber star together and released it over his backyard.

"Now he’ll always find his way home," I said.

The boy smiled. Above us, a new constellation formed—a wagging tail made of stardust.

Stars aren’t meant for jars.

They’re guideposts for the lost.