When Grandma died, you told me she became an angel. If I wanted to see her, I just had to look up to the stars. I believed you until my science teacher said stars were simply burning balls of gas.
At thirty, I moved to the city where stars were invisible.
“Come home,” you said.
I ignored you.
“I miss you,” you said.
I stopped returning your calls.
Then you were gone, and I was laying on the grass while my sisters cleaned out your house.
Cirrus clouds flowed across the night sky revealing your ghostly form, illuminated by the stars.