Starlight, in Time

Three drinks in, Mom tells me a secret. 

"When I was young," she starts, looking down from the night sky, "I wanted to be an  astronomer."  

Mom is no longer young, and neither am I. Still, I've never heard this. It's just the two of us,  braving mosquitoes and the summer humidity on her porch, sweating alongside beer bottles, and I feel ashamed at my surprise. I look to my mom, and the moths make the bare bulb behind us feign a flicker, obscuring her expression. I say nothing, unwilling to break the crackle-glass quiet. Mom continues.  

“Back then, everyone who knew me knew it. I read all the articles I could afford, saved up for a  telescope, and even got admitted to a good slew of schools that were top in the subject." 

"Why astronomy?" I ask, feeling ignorant. 

"Stars," she says, the word shaped by a slight smile. "Stars mean so many different things to so many different people, but they’ve always been everything. Constellations and culture, history and hope, light and love—humans have always looked to the stars. I wanted nothing more than to help us  touch them.” 

“What happened?” 

Mom fidgets for her bottle but doesn’t drink. “Money,” she says. Her shoulders move in the shape of a shrug, a sob. “College is expensive. Being alive is expensive. We just couldn't manage it.”

It’s hard to find a good response. It’s always hard to think about who your mother was before she was your mother. I find I can't look at her anymore, so instead I look out, squinting to see the fireflies in the faraway fields. Mom moves her head up again, and I know I should speak, but I can only supply silence. Suddenly, the crickets’ chirping feels like a timer, so I settle on “I’m sorry.” It’s true, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m not sure it matters. Mom makes no sign she’s heard the words.  Her eyes stay on the stars. 

“Somewhere,” she says, “there is a world without money. And we are all much happier there.” 

I track the fireflies. The insects' light ebbs and flows, the small lives’ soft glow weaving between grass, and suddenly, it reminds me of stars. Of course, the two are different in shade and size and distance, but they flicker the same, I realize. Light choreographed to the same melody. 

"We could do it," I say quietly. Mom looks at me. “We could do it," I repeat louder, braver, "on this planet. We could make Earth that world one day. Make it better, here. We’d both be long dead, of course, but... I think we could." I look at Mom. "Humanity could.” 

Mom looks away from me to take a long sip. “I don’t know,” she sighs. “I’m starting to believe  we’re doomed.” 

“Then you’d be a hypocrite.” That gets Mom’s gaze back to me. She meets my face with some shock, and I speak again, quickly. “It’s just—you said it yourself. All the things we believe, making  huge balls of gas our guides, I mean—humans see stories in stars." I shake my head a bit, smile. "Do  you really believe the people who made stars everything can be doomed?” 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but once they do, Mom laughs. The sound comes soft, and for a quick, fleeting second, the shadows on her face look lighter. She wraps an arm around me and puts her beer down to better point at the sky.

“The North Star is right there,” she says, trying to get the angle for me. “Do you see it?” After a few moments, I do, and she continues once I nod. “The North Star is about 433 light-years away.  Because it’s so far, and waves and particles can only travel so fast, the light we’re seeing from it right  now was first emitted around 433 years ago.” I can only blink for a moment, trying to comprehend that light can be old, aged. As I do, Mom removes her arm from me, but stays nearby. She speaks again. “I  wonder if the light that’s being emitted from it right now, when it reaches us in 433 years, will see an  Earth like that.” 

We catch each other’s gaze. The night sky reflects in the brown eyes she passed down to me. “I think it will,” I confess. “I hope so.” 

"I hope so, too." 

I look back up, then scoot to lean into her. Without words, she returns the gesture, and we settle in to watch the night. The fireflies continue to weave through the grass. The crickets continue to sing.  The moths’ wings continue to flicker. The Earth continues to spin, and the stars continue to shine.