Orion's Eyes

When I was little, seven or so, I started realizing things; really noticing things. I noticed that my mother never held my father’s hand. I noticed that I spent a lot more time at my grandmother’s house than I used to, than I did at my own house. I noticed that my father always smelled kind of funny and that his words sort of blended together. I noticed that I was always more comfortable at night, curled in bed with a flashlight and my grandmother’s book of constellations. I couldn’t always read the words printed on the pages, but I could trace my little fingers over the connect-the-dots pictures. I could pretend I could see the stars in the sky, through the clouds and the pollution and the bright city lights.
Two days before my fourteenth birthday, my father left. He got drunk like he usually did, which I had eventually realized was the cause of his strange scent and slurred words, and then decided that he much preferred the bar and strangers over my mother and I. He packed a bag with whiskey and a pair of pants and walked out, yelling something unintelligible behind him. My mother stood in the kitchen, looking out the window and mumbling and wringing her hands. I sat on my stool next to the counter, watching my mother with wide eyes. I knew my father hated us, I knew that he got drunk off his ass every day so that he didn’t have to actually think, I knew that he always threatened to leave, but I never thought he’d actually do it. He spoke heavy words, but he was nothing more than a coward. He was too afraid of the world to watch it with sober eyes.

My mother turned to me after a good ten minutes of silence. She looked a little distressed, a little worried about what to do next, but she was a strong woman. She had dealt with my father for sixteen years; she knew how to hold her own. She had always loved me and raised me with care when she wasn’t trying to get my father to put down his bottle. She couldn’t always watch me and care for me and she knew it, which was why I spent so much time with my grandmother. She would take me there when she couldn’t calm my father.

When my father walked out, I thought maybe that meant that going to my grandmother’s would become a less frequent event. Maybe my mother could focus more on taking care of us now that she didn’t have to care for him. I quickly found that that was not the case, however, when the first words that left my mother’s mouth when she turned around were, “You’re living with your grandmother.”
My grandmother had baked a chocolate cake for my birthday. She had even frosted it and covered it with sprinkles.

My mother didn’t come by to say “happy birthday.” She didn’t make pancakes for me and she didn’t end up giving them to my father like he always made her.

My father didn’t throw a bottle at the wall like he did the year before.

It was the best birthday I had ever had.
I went to the high school down the street from my grandmother’s. I didn’t talk to anyone there unless I had to. No boys told me I was pretty and no girls did either. I focused on getting my work done so that I could get home and help my grandmother in the garden. I didn’t care for school or the people there. I didn’t really care for being home either. I just wanted the sun to go down so that I curl up in bed with a flashlight and the book of constellations my grandmother had given me for my sixteenth birthday.

I could read all the pages now, but the stars still hid behind bright city lights.
The day after my eighteenth birthday, I left. I kissed my grandmother on the cheek and told her to take care of the garden. She kissed my cheek and told me not to forget to call her. I got in the car I bought with the money I’d saved from working at the diner a few blocks away and waved to my grandmother as I backed out of the driveway.

Leaving was the only thing I had ever had in common with my father.
On my twentieth birthday, I drove out to an empty field, one that I had heard was a great place for stargazing.

I walked out to middle of the field and lay on the ground. It was late, nearing eleven, and the stars were all out.

This was the first time I had ever seen the stars like this. The majority of my life, I was wishing I could see the sky, pretending the city and the pollution and the clouds didn’t cover it. When I left my grandmother’s, when I moved across the country and settled into an apartment on my own, I stargazed every night and was thankful for how clear the sky was in that area. But it was never as clear as it was in that field, where there were no lights to drown out the stars.

I lay there all night, matching the constellations above me to the ones in the book spread across my lap.
Over time, I learned who I was. I learned to grow and talk to people and take care of myself. I never drank and I called my grandmother every Wednesday. I learned how to hold myself up the way my mother used to and I learned how to smile at the strangers I passed on the sidewalk. I didn’t hide from people the way I did in high school and I didn’t hide my feelings the way I did when my father was around. I let myself live and I let myself smile.

I still stargazed every night and I drove out to the field whenever the weather was nice. I always compared the constellations in the sky to the ones in my book. I would make up my own and write them down in journal pages I’d tape to the inside of the book of constellations.

I never grew tired of the sky.
When I was little, when I first looked through the book of constellations, I found that I liked Orion the best. He had always sounded more interesting than the other constellations and I liked the way his name rolled off my tongue. Imagining I could see him in the sky always made me feel calmer, more at ease.

As I grew older, I grew fonder of him. He was the only best friend I had ever had. I considered the other constellations my friends as well, but they never meant as much to me as Orion did.

When I looked at the sky that first night at my apartment, I had found Orion immediately. It was the first time I saw him, in the sky and not on paper.

I sobbed as I looked at the sky, looked at him. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful.
On my thirty-seventh birthday, I drove out to the field again.

I often spoke to the stars when I went out there; talking to them had always made me feel better, even when I was little and couldn’t see them. That night was no different in that way.

It was different in many others, however.

I hadn’t been to the field in eight years. I had moved back to my hometown to be closer to my grandmother; she had fallen ill. She had fought to stay alive and she did well, but eventually she grew weak. I stayed in her house with her until her passing, then stayed a little longer to clear the house and plan her funeral. I had contacted my mother to let her know and I met with her when she came. She looked the same as she did when I last saw her, but with more wrinkles and grey hair. She still had bags under her brown eyes and she still wore her wedding ring. We held each other as we cried at the funeral.

When I went back to the town I had moved to after leaving the first time, I knew that things would be different. I knew that Wednesdays would be quieter without my grandmother’s laugh flowing through the phone. I knew that the records she gave me would sound different when I played them. I knew that the walls of my apartment would look different with my grandmother’s old paintings hanging on them.

I didn’t, however, know that the air would seem thinner. I didn’t know that I’d fall into hiding again. I didn’t know that the floor would feel colder when I got up in the morning. I didn’t know that my rib cage would feel so empty.

Being out in that field again only made the emptiness more prominent.

I spoke to the stars about it that night. I told them about how I missed her telling me about the flowers. How I missed how she’d tell me about the neighbor’s daughter. How I missed finding letters from her in the mailbox.

I told them about how much quieter my apartment seemed. How it felt like my grandmother’s house after she was gone. I told them about seeing my mother again and how I hadn’t tried to contact her again.

I told them about how I couldn’t see them at my grandmother’s.

I had played with my fingers and the loose string on my sleeve most of the night. I hadn’t brought my book of constellations and my hands felt as empty as my chest.

I kept my gaze focused on my hands the entire time I was playing with them. It was the first time I had sat out there with my focus on something other than the stars.

When I finally looked up, an hour and a half after I sat down, my eyes immediately caught on Orion.

I realized then why he was always my favorite. Why I always felt like I related to him somehow, even though our stories were nothing alike.

Silent, shimmering, lonesome.

Orion and I aren’t really much different after all.