An old man, wrapped in a lint-covered wool coat, sat on a dewy bench beside a young girl with sparkling eyes whose feet couldn’t quite reach the ground. One of them was a stranger, and one was not.
They were alone at the edge of a cornfield. The dark rows stretched endlessly into the evening landscape. An owl hooted somewhere in the tree line behind them, but they paid no notice: their attention was fixed on the slate sky. Without looking away, the man patted the jacket’s wrinkled pockets, in search of his glasses.
“They’re beautiful,” said the girl with sparkling eyes.
The man began to feel a growing excitement as he wiped his glasses and peered into the sky.
“Yes, yes they are.”
He leaned forward and dipped his gloved hand into the galaxy and stirred the stars with his index. The man murmured feverishly, and his arm motions became exaggerated and sporadic.
“This one’s Leo, and that’s the Big Dipper—but you knew that already. Oh, here’s Orion’s Belt.”
As he continued speaking, his eyes began to shimmer and carry a light of their own. The girl watched in wonder, but she was no longer looking at the sky. Each lightyear-long connection the man made between the unceasing lights and their names fueled the now blazing inferno behind the thin, wire glasses.
Eventually, the man discovered a constellation with a name he couldn’t place. He slowly retrieved his arm from the sky, sunk back into the bench, and let his eyes take on the soft, damp blackness of the night.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” was his breathed denouement.
“Yes, Papa. They’re beautiful.” The girl gently unfolded the man’s trembling hand and fit her small fingers between his.
The man turned from the glittering canvas for the first time, and he saw two new stars.
“Oh, I’m sorry. What is your name, miss?”
“Cassie, for Cassiopeia—your favourite.”
Photo by Enric Cruz López (Pexels)