Author: R. J. Erbacher

I was lying on a beach, naked under a blanket, having just made love to my wife, and we were gazing at the stars. An intense fireplace of driftwood crackled in a hole scooped out of the sand and the only other sound was the soothing pulse of the waves breaking on the shore. We were high or drunk, I don’t remember, but as we slowed our breathing, our backs to the cool granular earth, we took in the expanse of celestial bodies that stretched out above us like an endless sparks splattered canvas.

“God, they’re beautiful,” Nina said, a trickle of a tear leaking from her eye and sliding down her cheek. I could not disagree. I was not crying, but I should have been. Our close friend Samuel had just died. He and I had laughed and enjoyed each other’s company a hundred times, and Nina and Samuel had been intimate from a past relationship. We had all still been friends and always had the best time. He had been killed in a senseless act of violence, and we came here right after the funeral and family dinner to the beach, one of our favorite spots to party, and left our black dress clothes in a pile on the dune.

“Do you think he’s up there looking down at us?” Nina asked.

I scrutinized her wonderings for a few seconds. “In the stars?”

“Or heaven. Same thing, right?”

“I don’t think so.” I was not sure if I was responding to her first or second inquiry.

We didn’t say anything after that, but I felt her quite sobs on my shoulder as we drifted off.

In the morning the sunrise was the most spectacular thing I had ever seen in my life. The sun emerged from the azure sea and filled the sky with a color that was so heartening that I had to wake Nina and show her. The sparse clouds shined like billowy spirits enjoying the spectacle. A lone seagull wafted through the tapestry before diving out of sight. We stared at it for a quiet minute, then brushed the sand from our skin, dressed, kicked over the smoldering wood and left.

The dawn of another day that would see us go back to work as well as the rest of our lives.

Now, on a seemingly endless journey, moving through the universe at a propulsion that bordered contemplation, I blankly stare at the boundless stars, through this triple aluminosilicate glass viewport, at a night that never ends and a dark morning that no longer contains a sunrise. No wife beside me. Only memories of memories. And years of dawns gone by that I took for granted.

“They’re only stars, no heavens.” I finally answered Nina’s question.