text: The stars are going out. My father and I are amateur astronomers. There’s a little hill behind my house, separated from it by a ten minute hike through brambles and fences and sleeping neighbors. We used to sneak out on school nights, when my mother was asleep and the world was waiting, and carefully pick our way out there, with only a flashlight and a sense of humor to guide us. It was our place, our time, and on that hill, with us under the stars and they under our lens, the whole world stood still for a moment, except for the wise old owl somewhere in the distance who cooed at us: “Hoo! Hoo!” Father taught me the names of the stars, and the stories people used to tell about them so long ago in far away places called “Greece” and “Rome.” Funny men in togas and wreaths. He told me about Cygnus, who spent days collecting the bones of his friend Phaethon which had fallen into the river Eridanus after Zeus had been forced to strike his father’s chariot out of the sky when he had lost control over it. The Gods turned him into a swan as a reward for his devotion. We would spend hours there, taking turns peeking through the telescope, first him, then me, then him again. And, for a few moments, they were all that existed: him and the stars. I learned a second meaning of “cancer” which the serious man in the white coat hadn’t told me when he gently explained that my mother was going to die. There was no talk of stars -- just daunorubicin and radiation. I asked if she would glow like the men in the comic books, and she said no, with a wetness in her eyes. We didn’t talk about sad things on the hill. That was the rule. Not even after the funeral. The hill was for him and me and the stars. “That’s Orion,” Father told me, putting a hand around my waist and pointing with the other one. “Which one?” I asked, after he helped me up to the lens. “It’s...” but, he trailed off. “What is it?” I asked. “The stars,” he said, breathlessly. “The stars are going out.” He was right. One by one, the little points of light were shutting off. Father took out his phone and dialed a number. It was late, but Rob answered anyway. “Rob? Look out your window and tell me what you see.” There was a pause, and then he answered. “Yeah, I see what you mean, they really are...” And then the line went dead. “Rob?” Father asked. “Rob?!” No response. And, that’s when I saw it -- the blackness, like a wall of ice rolling towards us. The brambles and the neighbors and the field between the fence and the hill were all being sucked up in the blackness. “What’s happening?” I asked, and Father wrapped me up tight in his arms. “It’s okay, Care-Bear,” he said, his words muffled by my hair. “It’s okay,” he said, again and again. “I don’t understand,” I said, and a tear fell from my cheek. “I’m here,” he said, kneeling down in front of me, and taking my face in his hands. “I’m not going anywhere, Caroline, no matter what, I pro...” But, he never got to finish. Suddenly, I was all alone. “Hoo! Hoo!” I heard, somewhere off in the distance.