Short Story: Northern Star

Short Story: Northern Star

There have been no mornings, only morning afters. Like a persistent pain, the space beside me in the bed is unoccupied, the pillow plump and pristine, the sheet cold. Occasionally, like today, I find one of your hairs beneath my pillow and curse you.

What was already too hard before I open my eyes became harder when our children slipped into the bed and asked when you’ll be coming home. I reminded them you’ve become a star in the night sky.

‘Why couldn’t he be a bird?’ our youngest demanded.

‘Don’t be silly,’ her brother complained.

‘Or lion?’ she challenged, undeterred.

‘Lions eat people,’ her brother warned.

‘Why does he only come when we’re asleep?’ she demanded.

‘It’s not fair,’ they agreed.

What can I say? They listened to you. I was good at what you weren’t, and now you’ve left me with everything and nothing.

While the children ate breakfast it began to snow. Grey clouds filled the sky and the light rose. We watched the flakes fall from their bedroom window. The time for taking them to school passed, but they knew it wasn’t an ordinary day. I wrapped them in blankets and we observed London hunkering down, preparing for silence.

‘Why couldn’t he be a snowman?’ our daughter asked.

‘He’d melt,’ her brother reasoned.

‘He could live in the freezer,’ he was told. ‘Like fish fingers.’

~

When we ventured outside the light was failing. The streets were strips of white satin, and London seemed what it has long not been: young and virginal. Deep white caps covered windowsills, railings and shop front skirts; tree branches were adorned with lace; rare motorists slewed along richly blanketed roads.

We made our way to Clapham Common, and I sat upon the steps to the bandstand, watching the children float within white crystal clouds.

I’m sorry, but for those few minutes I was ridiculously happy. Why am I apologising? Because I experienced joy at the ground being white? Because I saw hope for our children? Because I knew for the first time the pain of losing you won’t be endless.

When we returned home we sipped mugs of hot chocolate and nibbled ginger cookies. Before choosing their bedtime book the children asked to see your star.

‘There it is,’ they gasped, fingertips pointing to the brightest in the sky. ‘Is he really there?’

‘Always,’ I told them.

~

Our children have just fallen asleep. Their heads occupy the pillow that was once yours. Tomorrow morning it will be misshapen and the sheet they slept upon warmly creased. If one of your hairs lurks beneath my pillow, the pain of discovery will be lessened by the hushed awe of our children.

Until now there have only been mornings after, but perhaps tomorrow the morning will come. I didn’t believe I would ever wish for this, but at this moment I wish for the morning to come soon.