Stardust
“It’s time.”
“Now?”
“Yes. You better come now… today… as soon as you can.”
It’s Clara. My sister’s voice is unusually soft, unstable.
On the plane, the sun has already set and it’s a dark clear night. From my window seat I gaze down at the cities that look like small consortiums of stars – clusters of sparkling jewels. I’m numb, in denial. My body hums along with the sound of the plane. Everyone seated around me is in some sort of trance as we fly from Denver to Minneapolis. It’s February. I think about the outside temperature – how cold it must be at this altitude. As I watch white translucent clouds pass over the city-galaxies, my mind doesn’t allow the thought of him passing. Instead, I focus on the stars and how they meet the horizon and how the lights on the earth, from this distance, make me feel as though I’m traveling to a different dimension. I remember how Dad showed me constellations and how he brought the night sky alive.
I land in Minneapolis and call Mom to check in. They’re at the hospital – everyone. I board the flight from Minneapolis to Duluth. In the air, I hear my father’s voice. I hear him tell me what he wants me to do with his ashes. I land in Duluth. I exit the gate and my brother-in-law greets me. He hugs me – a little too long. Then I know it before he says the words. “He’s gone. About an hour ago.”
At the hospital, I take the elevator up several stories. It’s quiet. I enter the room where Dad lies. The melody of Leonard Cohen plays in the background. His backup singers sound like angels. I look around the room. My sisters, my mother, and Lara form an arc around his bed. I look at their faces first, then cast my eyes down at the hospital bed. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to see my father’s lifeless body. But, I do. I look down and see him – his chest unbreathing. His body stiff and yellow.
Lara, appearing from nowhere, is suddenly at my side. Her long dark hair is neatly braided and lays against her back. Her small frame hugs me. She looks at me with reassurance. Her green eyes try to council me. Her voice is smooth and calm.
“He’s still here. He’s right here sitting on top of his body.”
I lose track of time. I don’t know whose tears have fallen on my shoulders, who I’ve hugged, who I’ve spoken to in whispers. Finally, one of the hospice staff asks if we’ve had time to say goodbye. Everyone nods. Two attendants approach his bed, then they wheel my father’s body out of the room. It’s near eleven at night. Mom says she’ll take me home.
For the first time in my memory, the car ride home with Mom is silent. There’s nothing she can say to alleviate the gravity of this night. From the passenger seat, I notice flares emanating from the horizon. I wonder if I’m seeing things. With one hand on the wheel, Mom places her right hand on my left.
“Looks like the Northern Lights are out tonight,” she whispers.
Near midnight, at my mother’s house, we step out of the car and look up at the sky. Mom stands by me for a while then says, “I’m going inside sweetheart. Don’t stay out too long.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom.”
I walk down the snowy driveway, away from the house, to get a better view.
Time stops as I stand there. There is no sound except the gentle falling of snowflakes and a tonal vibration like the sound that emanates when stroking the rim of a glass. Ripples of red and blue light unfold before me…each vibrant column turns and twists, transforming itself from one hue to another. Pulsating, the sky seems larger and deeper, carrying more energy than before. Now, blue, green, and purple – violet and silver. I can’t take my eyes away from the flares of liquid color – the live painting. I want to stay up all night and watch the full story.
In the evenings that follow, I watch the nocturnal sky. Each night, there is a repeat performance. I think about how in all my years growing up at this same location, I’d never witnessed such a profound display. And yet, night after night, the dazzling aurora revisited. How could it not be him?
After my father’s funeral, I have the weekend to gather my things and pack for my return to Colorado. On Saturday morning I long for a proper container for Dad. In a little shop downtown, I find a vintage-style glass bottle shaded with his signature – purple. The night before my return flight, I carefully empty his ashes into the bottle.
Mom brings me to the airport and says goodbye. I check my suitcase at the counter then walk to the security screening area. I’m using a large purse as a carry-on. At airport security, I hand a man my license and boarding pass. As I approach the next checkpoint, the x-ray scanner, I notice few people in line. The usual feel of airport rush and anxiety is absent. For a moment, I forget about the purple bottle. Just before the scanner, I approach a woman. She appears to be in her mid-fifties and seems friendly, yet serious. I nonchalantly hand her my bag. With both hands she carefully inspects the contents and pulls out the purple bottle. She looks at me with fascination.
“What is this?”
Realizing the awkwardness of the moment, I form a soft smile.
“Oh, those are my Dad’s ashes.”
The words fall out of my mouth easily – perhaps too much so. The woman moves her hands abruptly away from the bottle.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay.”
I gently return the purple bottle to my bag and walk through the security x-ray.