We rarely saw the stars. Marine fog covered them like drapes.
At Halloween, we picked pumpkins in the desert with our mom. When night fell we’d admire the stars we never saw at home. Her finger traced outlines over the Big Dipper and Leo.
Mom knew them all, revealed patterns in the chaos of rhinestones sparkling on black canvas—Draco’s tail, Hercules dancing. “There’s Virgo, sweetheart. See it?”
I followed her finger to a cluster of stars, and, for a moment, thought I had. But they faded to black as my eyelids closed and I drifted to sleep on her lap.