If you’ve made a friend of a constellation, then we need not bother to say much; you know what it is to scan the night’s sky for the telltale groupings of ancient light that have accompanied all of your stories.
If you haven’t had the pleasure, well, there is still time. Or, maybe that is promising too much, but you could still look up and lay bare your heart, drowning it with awe.
I remember Orion peering at me over the edge of a snowbank, the cold seeping steadily through my snow pants, my breath obscuring him; his light and the light of the moon making luminous the quiet snow. The snow below, the stars above, held between, Orion looking, steady and silent; “I will always have you, Orion.”
He is used to me coming to him with all of my tears. I don’t like to cry with people, nor indoors, but with my Orion as that imperturbable anchor that he is, I could endeavor to grieve bodily, loudly. Frustrated, hurt, jealous, furious, despairing, overwhelmed, I again and again sought the comfort of his easily found shape. “Did Homer speak with you too, Orion?”
I walked endlessly tonight; there was never enough sidewalk for my strides to devour. St. Paul’s stained glass windows caused me pause. On the front of the church they depicted Christ the Good Shepherd, and on the side Christ in Gethsemane. He who holds us also prayed with tears; He too asked to be delivered. I took hold of that and I walked on.
My feet relinquished the sidewalks, relinquished their ceaseless pounding forward and I stretched out on my back to find my friend Orion. He looked at me, and I looked at him, pinprick of light by pinprick of light. “Hello, Orion.”