Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In my years with Mark, even from very early on when we started dating, I would quickly come to learn that he was fascinated with nature, so much so that he moved with a quiet reverence in the outdoor world so as not to disturb any living thing that was nearby. Every road trip we took he was constantly scanning the landscape for hawks, deer, wild turkey, bald eagles. I was his sidekick observer, often only reliable enough to point out an unimpressive herd of slow moving cows. On rare occasions when I’d spot something more impressive I’d shout, “HAWK, MARK!!! HAWK ON THE LEFT,” and then high-five myself for my exuberant Wild Kingdom narration. This amused and frustrated him. For him, being a part of nature, even from the confines of a car, meant stepping into that world quietly, not screaming like you’d won the showcase on The Price Is Right.
For all of Mark’s enthrallment with woods and river banks, mine was in the sky. I could stare at the stars for hours. It isn’t likely to see more than a few stars in our neighborhood, but if there was a chance for a dazzling, sparkly show Mark would find it for me. Once sitting on the patio of a restaurant nearby, as the sun set the stars blinked on. “Oh Mark, the stars,” I said, batting my green eyes at him like he was the Sexiest Man Alive, “Look at all the stars.” He smiled and said, “I thought this would be a good spot for you to get your star fix.” A few years ago on a road trip back from Montana, we stayed a night with our son-in-law’s parents who live in the Black Hills of South Dakota. After dark we went in their backyard and the sky was lit with stars. I couldn’t believe the spectacular beauty of it and asked incredulously, “This is what you get to see? Every night?”
When we were in Vermont for a conference Mark was attending, on the drive back to the inn where we were staying I said, “It’s so pitch black out here I bet you can really see the stars.” Mark immediately pulled over, we jumped out of the car, and were wowed by thousands of stars. We stood next to each other, my arm looped through Mark’s, my head on his shoulder, and never spoke. There was nothing to say in the vastness of that night sky, and I have thought of that sweet, dark night a thousand times. A night when two people were so confident in their love of each other in an endless universe that words weren’t necessary.
When my granddaughter comes to spend the night we always go outside to look at the moon. We might see a star here and there and Mabel says the same thing her mom and dad have said to her since Mark died, “Boompa is in the stars now.” “He is,” I say back to her, “and hasn’t he been gone too long?” She will usually tell me that we need to go up to the stars and bring him back home, as if it’s only a matter of finding a big enough ladder, and I say oh honey if only that could be. We will look up quietly, because like her grandfather, she is learning that in the silence is when heaven and nature sings.
A few weeks ago when she stayed over, we went out to see the moon and I asked her if she’d looked at the stars in the sky when she’d recently been to her grandparent’s house in South Dakota. She said she had and I said, “Can you believe how many of them you can see when you’re there?” We talked about Mark being among them like we always do, and instead of saying we should go up there and get him, she turned to me and said, “Maybe Boompa likes being with the stars.”
In that conversation between me and a three year old, I realized that I’ve been waging a battle against the only place Mark felt safe and at home when not beside me. A quiet dwelling in a universe far bigger than we can imagine here, a shimmering, reverent nightlight in my often dark world, and the place my husband knew I’d look for him every night since he’s been gone.
