I grew up in a strange household. We believed in the supernatural but not in the manner that most people would think after hearing me say that. My grandmother talks to pictures and believes she can hear what the person would tell her. She has conversations with God and dead relatives. We all believe that the dogs talk to us. I talk to articles that have been left behind by people who no longer speak to me for one reason or another. I talk to my computer when its acting up, my Brown Pillow when my heart is broken, and my reflection in the mirror.
More often than any of this my entire family talks to stars. In my eight-year-old mind, it made sense that my mother could hear me through the stars. There were, afterall, up there with her. You could find me in the backyard, on a swing, chatting away to the sky. As an adult, I realize that stars have no more power than sending light millions of lightyears away. They’re not portals or transmitters. They’re simply light. I keep talking though. Car windows down, speedometer tapping 80 mph, my mind racing to relieve itself of the thoughts that bounce around incessantly.
Today I’m fighting the urge to go home and curl up until this whole ordeal is over. I understand that nothing worth having comes easily. I’m well aware of that. It seems like my conversations with stars over the past month bring me to tears every time. I don’t think I’ve wanted something this badly in a very long time.
I woke up this morning with my dog laying across my leg. I pulled my Brown Pillow deep into my chest and whispered to my mother’s corner my hopes and fears about this whole ordeal. It felt… right. Things felt okay. I was heard by something, even if it was stuffing in a 30 year old pillow.