Immortalized

The week she died would have been the week she turned seventeen.

I would have taken her to our star gazing nook, and just before she fell asleep I would have asked her to marry me. "Miss Winfar," I'd start, taking a shaggy breath. Her tired eyes would turn to me inquiringly, and it would give me the nerve to continue. "How does Mrs. Haley Winfar Brooke sound to you?"

The future Mrs. Haley Winfar Brooke would have smiled and kissed me - not a goodnight kiss on the forehead - a 'Yes, Daniel Brooke, I will marry you' kiss on the lips.

But that didn't happen.

The Thursday night before she left me, Haley wrote something down on a piece of paper. I hadn't noticed at first, because she had to poke me in the arm to get my attention. I glanced over at her with a smile, and I noticed immediately that she was excited about something. She held up a candle so I could read what she wrote:

"Maybe in another lifetime, we'll be stars."

I grinned wider, but my heart was troubled about that. She waited quietly for my response.

"I'd like that Haley. I really would," I whispered, tugging at her arm. She laid back next to me and fell into slumber, as she always did. I carried her home, returned the basket and blanket, then went home.

I wish now that I had known she wouldn't wake up.

-

Our field died, my heart became lonely, and the days seemed much duller, if that's even possible. Everything Haley loved died along with her - the red checkered blanket dry rotted, the picnic basket was ruined by mice, the unused sheets of paper turned yellow and the lead in the colored pencils were shattered, so that I could never sharpen one without it breaking off. The grass became brittle and an ugly yellow color as autumn set in; the weeds over took our special spot.

Despite all this, one thing didn't change: the stars went on shining as if I hadn't lost Haley. They didn't seem to care, and neither did the MilkyWay, or the moon, or even Halley's comet (which I watched pass only a few months later). Looking up at the oblivious heaven made me angry and sad. I took down all of the constellation drawings she made for me that stuck to my ceiling - the whole universe disappeared from my bedroom, so I wouldn't have to miss her.

But I missed her, I missed her, I missed her.

I visited her more often than I should have. Clovers and Black Eyed Susan never ceased to adorn her gravestone. The words marked into it were also carved into my heart:



One night, I broke down right there above her dead body. I cried more than when she passed. She didn't deserve such tragedy. She was too young; Haley was too beautiful - too loved. The day ended along with my tears, but I couldn't bring myself to leave. Those dreadful stars began to peek through the darkening sky. I couldn't help but look up to them and give Haley a lesson on the constellations and other heavenly bodies.

"There's the Big and Little Dipper," I traced them, "Polaris, Cassiopea... Orion, Castor and Pollux, Sirius and Procyon, Capella..." I stopped when my finger landed on a star I hadn't seen or could recall.

It was bright - not easily overlooked - and had a grayish tint, like the color of Haley's eyes. It wasn't sad like her, though. It looked young and full of life. All of my knowledge of the universe brought up no name of the mystery star, but the last thing Haley ever said (wrote) to me played over and over again - "Maybe in another lifetime, we'll be stars."

My brain clicked, and for the first time in months, a smile played on my lips.

"Mrs. Haley Winfar Brooke, you lucky girl."

Only the best and most tragic of people get remembered... I guess God thought she was both, so he gave her an immortal legacy in the skies.