Even now I see winter as it turns around the room in the light. Darting from white lances, to rays, silver crosses, to the optical glass, to the flames, to the reflective windows, and illuminating each of us. The sicker I become, the more clearly I can see that everything is connected by light.
No life is more important than another. And nothing has been without purpose. Nothing. What if we are all part of a great pattern that we may someday understand? And one day, when we have done what we alone are capable of doing, we get to rise up and reunite with those we have loved the most, forever embraced. What if we get to become… stars.
The abandoned stars were hers for the many rich hours of sparkling winter nights, and, unattended, she took them in like lovers. She felt that she looked out, not up, into the spacious universe, she knew the names of every bright star and all the constellations, and (although she could not see them) she was familiar with the vast billowing nebulae in which one filament of a wild and shaken mane carried in its trail a hundred million worlds. In a delirium of comets, suns, and pulsating stars, she let her eyes fill with the humming, crackling, hissing light of the galaxy’s edge, a perpetual twilight, a gray dawn in one of heaven’s many galleries.