All My Stars

And a fingernail moon

Tonight’s stargazing forecast is a late-December bummer

It doesn’t feel much like Christmas in Florida. With sunny days in the 80s and evenings still too warm to turn off the AC, it’s often difficult to even remember what month it is.

But the past couple of weeks have been different. The days have been cool and the dark evenings that come so much earlier now require at least a sweatshirt.

Those nights are my favorite.

When it’s cold and clear here, the stars take on a life of their own. I take the dogs out for their final potty break, and I stand in the yard with chin pointing up, staring at the open sky, shivering in the welcome breeze.

“Look, Sissy!” I’ll say as she rolls around in the sand. “That’s the Little Dipper!”

“Ruby?” I’ll ask. “Do you see the North Star?”

They don’t answer, but I talk to them anyway.

And I remember.

Every Christmas Eve when I was young, we’d walk over to the Robak’s house for gifts and drinks and holiday cheer before Midnight Mass. Pat was my mom’s dear friend and my before-kindergarten daytime babysitter. Ray was her deep-voiced, pipe-smoking husband who reminded me a bit of Santa himself.

Once when I was supposed to be napping at Pat’s, I stole a beautiful rosary from her daughter, Mimi’s bedside. Although I knew stealing was wrong, I couldn’t resist the silky smooth beads that felt like pearls. I tucked the rosary gently into my pocket and rubbed the beads with my thumb and forefinger until I fell asleep. When I woke up, and made my way sleepily into the kitchen, Pat asked if I had something in my pocket.

“No, nothing!” I lied, as I placed my hand over the large, noticeable lump the rosary made.

Lying and stealing: A double whammy.

But Pat never judged. My mom returned the rosary to its rightful owner when she found it in my room later that night. I’m certain Pat would have never asked for it back.

The Robak’s house backed up to our apartment complex, so we’d walk around the block to participate in our annual tradition. Mom and Carrie would hold my hands if the snow was deep.

And I always prayed to my childhood god that there’d be snow on Christmas Eve.

When the snow was bright and the night dark, there was magic in the starry sky. I would walk most of the way, looking up, knowing my mom and big sister would not let me fall if I stumbled. I looked for Santa, for his reindeer, for my breath, visible in the cold night air.

And when Pat and Ray welcomed us into their warm, cozy home, I’d strip my coat and boots off and head straight for the cookie platters that Pat had placed around the house. Platter by platter, I’d find every peanut blossom until Carrie whispered fiercely at me to stop being so stingy and to save some peanut blossoms for everyone else.

When my own kids were little, their dad and I would stay up into the wee hours of the morning, assembling toys and carefully placing stickers on bikes and Barbie houses and Hot Wheels sets, and stuffing stockings to the brim with trinkets and toys and chocolates.

Before I fell into bed, exhausted by the hustle and bustle of the holiday, I’d stand by the back patio and look at the stars. I’d search for constellations and envision my kids’ unbridled joy the next morning; the looks of wide-eyed wonder on their faces as they raced down the stairs to find deeply desired treasures waiting under the tree.

And I’d fall asleep, grateful for the wonder and joy that childhood brings.

When I look at the stars now, though, they are different. My kids are in faraway places, and the only magic that waits for me on a starry night is the pile of dog poo that I find before I step in it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy that my adult kids have found their homes and are building their lives independently. It’s what I always wanted for them. It’s they way life is supposed to unfold. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel a little tug in my chest when I remember those Christmases past and the pink of my babies’ fresh-from-sleep cheeks, and their squeals of joy as they unwrapped Santa’s gifts and ate Christmas candy with wild abandon.

And then there’s Mom and Carrie, gone from this earthly life too soon. My beautiful, hard-working, hilarious mom who worked three jobs to support us and died before she was able to travel to Europe, her ultimate dream. And Carrie, just 58 when she left with a tumor in her brain and decades of life yet to be lived.

When I look at the stars on a crisp Florida night, I try to conjure up the magic of my youth, of my children’s youth. But, of course, it is different now. The magic has dulled, and only the glow of the stars remains.

The Big Dipper. Orion’s Belt.

And when the the moon is waning, and it slims itself down into a fingernail, I think about Mom, who loved this life so much that she poured all of her joy and amazement and energy into every particle of her being and into us, my sister and me.

And this blue planet keeps on spinning without them, and without my babies in their bedrooms down the hall, and without holiday traditions that ended long ago, and without the wonder that used to fill my childhood dreams.

But that’s the way life goes. It continues on until it doesn’t any more.

And we are left to make our way through what remains; to figure out how to reassemble the pieces when the puzzle no longer makes sense; to create new traditions while honoring the old; to look at the stars on a crisp, cool evening and know that somewhere, somehow, the magic still exists in the memory.

Teenage Mary Claire reads beside the book tree.

“I lit a fire with the love you left behind. It burned wild and crept up the mountainside. I followed your ashes into outer space. I can’t look out the window. I can’t look at this place. I can’t look at the stars, they make me wonder where you are…” ~ Grace Potter and the Nocturnals