When Next the Stars Align

Culture is a river flowing to an ocean of collective belief.

Lest we are lost at sea, we must wrest our way to the banks and build a new life in the wilderness.

“I” am a room in my mind made from expectations and circumstances.

“I” am a room where I keep myself, but there’s more to me than what I drag out into the light for others to see.

***** * *****

I loved so deeply it hurt more to stay than let go.

Who can understand this?

I couldn’t watch them self-destruct, and I couldn’t stop them either.

So I left.

Now that the news has reached me, I must return to that house in the country where I grew up, where we broke bread and sang hymns to peace and love.

Memories infused with warmth. The dinner table, the family room with the big piano, the backyard barbecues, potlucks, and bake sales that drew in new members.

They’d come in as members of the faith and become members of the family, most of them forever.

I was born into the family and broke away from the faith when I fled the family home.

Standing at the front door of the big house, key in hand, I look away, across the vast fields the family once worked—now unsown with sustenance, overgrown instead with nature’s random contributions.

One whole patch is overrun with violets, their soft petals shimmering blue or purple depending on how the wind moves and the sun alights.

“I” am only one flower, but how I appear depends on where I stand and how the wind pushes me into the light.

***** * *****

Inside the house, I find a perfect home, neatly arranged, far cleaner than the messy apartment I left back in the city.

I walk from the foyer into the family room.

There’s the big piano. I lift the lid from over the keys and plink out a few notes.

No one answers, and the lonely room eats the echo of the last note, as if to say:

No more music. Not here. Never again here.

“I” am just a lonely note fading into a shadowy corner.

Were there others to hear me, would I sound the same as I do to myself?

Would I be so lonely?

Would I speak up more?

***** * *****

In the dining room the long table is still set as if for a meal, with a plate and a set of silverware symmetrically arranged on white napkins in front of every chair, which were each pushed in and perfectly equidistant from every other.

How many times have I set this table with my siblings only to jumble it all into disarray over a prayer, a good meal, and laughter?

“I” am a series of comforting routines.

Yet with no one there to set the table for, and no one there to clean up after but myself, what will I do with my idle hands?

When will I laugh again?

***** * *****

There’s not a thing out of place in the kitchen either.

There are still canned goods in the cabinets, but the fridge is empty.

They used up everything that would perish but left those things which might endure to feed another.

The faint smell of cleaning agents—chemical concoctions shrouded in lemon and orange—permeate the sterile space.

I recall mother at the stove, surrounded by the heady smell of herbs and spices intermingled with fresh-cut fruits, vegetables, and meats seared and simmering over open flames.

She could always be bothered to chat while deftly handling the night’s meal. No kid was turned away. She’d not only let you help but be happy to give you something to do.

Everything I know about cooking, I learned from Mom.

Sometimes, in my dirty kitchenette, I catch myself having conversations with her, even though she’s not there.

I imagine her answers, but I know I’m talking to a memory which can’t even be described as a ghost.

Either way, I’m haunted.

“I” am a heart that pumps love, sputtering into the void.

***** * *****

On the second floor, each room I visit brings me some small joy with each heavy pang.

The study where Dad read to us.

The bedrooms where my brothers and sisters and I played.

We hid and we sought. We built forts and we told scary stories with flashlight spotlights shining on our faces in otherwise dark rooms. We colored and drew and painted and pillow-fought.

Standing perfectly still in the network of hallways, I might have felt my younger self brush past, chased by my sister.

I might have heard the high, mad shriek of laughter from my youngest brother as he was caught and tickled.

We know when we put the seashell to our ear that we aren’t really hearing the echoes of past waves, but our mind creates the association, a romantic notion far more appealing than a mathematical description of acoustics.

“I” am a seashell talking to itself. The wind that moves through me is of the present, but where I linger, it whirls and eddies around me until it creates waves from the past.

***** * ****

Every room held something for me, a painful pleasant memory of a life I haven’t lived in many years.

I don’t know if the life I went on to live was necessarily better, but I know it belonged to me, and that it is not yet at an end.

Candice, my older sister, promised she would leave something for me in our secret place in the attic so that I would find it if I ever returned.

A trunk full of costumes, collected over many years, worn by multiple children playing at this or that.

Candice and I were the oldest. We wore them first. We were pirates. We were aristocrats. We were Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the three wise men for the Sunday plays.

We were the only ones who knew about the secret compartment.

“I” am a costume, but I am also the one who wears it.

There, beneath the false bottom, was an envelope with my name on it.

I opened it to read the letter inside.

I was not surprised by what I found, but it still hurt.

***** * *****

Dearest Eli,

There are no words to describe how I’ve missed you all these years.

Dad said that you would never return to our fold, but that you would find your own way to Heaven one day.

I took that to heart as we prepared to meet the Lord.

There’s a lot of things I want to tell you, but I’d rather wait until you arrive.

I know you stopped believing, but my faith grew stronger as the years went on.

Dad’s sermons make more sense to me than ever.

The way the world is today, why shouldn’t I turn away from it to move into Heaven’s light?

Tomorrow, when the comet passes overhead, we’ll all go together to meet God and Jesus and Mother Mary up there.

Remember how we used to do those plays? I’ll bet they’ll have something nice to say about your performance!

You were a great Jesus!

Wherever you are, dear brother, know that I love you, and if you find this letter before you find me, I’ll see you on the other side.

Please don’t be sad about our method of departure. As Dad always said, these are mere appearances.

Sometimes, the Lord’s true bounty is hidden just beyond the yield of a bitter harvest.

I’ll pray for you, until we meet again, when next the stars align.

Yours in Sincerity and Faith,

Candice