Parish longed for a life where she was loved. She wanted to be able to let her emotions free. She wanted a single friend to vent all of her problems to. She wanted her mom to stop drinking and let her go to school. She wanted luxury. She wanted her father to still be alive. She wanted a story.
A wide-eyed, 15 year old girl was walking down a busy road with her mother. They had just picked up groceries from the nearest gas station and were heading home. As Parish looked up, the night sky was absorbed in her eyes. The universe revolved around her for a brief moment, before her mothers raspy voice called, "Parish! Let's pick up the pace so I have time to make it out to Freddie's house in time for her party." Parish rolled her eyes at the thought of her mother going out again. "Don't you dare give me that look, or I won't let you watch TV while we eat dinner tonight." Letting her scalding eyes glance at Parish for a few moments, her mother murmured, "I can't believe I let you stay in my life."
As her mother walked what seemed like hundreds of miles in front of her, Parish's mind touched each of her wishes like it was a delicate flower under the beady eyes of a microscope. She had expected so much more out of life even though she had squeezed every last ounce of happiness from her soul. The logs sitting in the back of her mind lost their flame long ago; but what Parish didn't realize was, an ember can either flourish, or die out.
Parish opened the unappealing door with a free finger as she carried the three paper grocery bags into the house and set them on an open space on the counter. The kitchen was more sad than when she was little. It used to have bright yellow walls with an old-school blue fridge and a window looking out towards the road. When Parish looked at the kitchen now, it had a ugly color of yellow paint pealing off the wall, the center island had a plank of wood on top of the cabinets to act as a counter, and the blue fridge had mold all around the edges. Wine and liquor bottles dotted the counter tops and overflowed onto the floor. Everything was different except the view out the front window. She could see the tire swing her father used to push her on, the hill their family would have picnics on, and her neighbors plentiful garden. "Mom, I'm gonna go outside. I think I see some cucumbers in the neighbors yard that look good." She said as her mother crashed into the couch. All Parish got as a reply was an enthusiastic, "Meh", which she took as a yes. Grabbing her ragged backpack, she strolled out the front door and around to the back of the house.
Parish stood at the edge of the wood with her back to her house. All the memories with her father she had in the beautiful house, are gone. The house now slumps awkwardly to the left and holds her drunken mother who makes it even uglier. Every night Parish watches her mother come home from a random bar or party. Every night Parish locks her bedroom door, and every morning she wanders into her moms room while she was still sleeping and rummaged through her pockets for any spare change. When she was lucky enough to find anything, she would hide it somewhere she knew her mother would never find.
She slung her backpack down on the ground next to a tree with gravel surrounding it. Her hands clung to a piece of grass and set it aside. Her hands grew brown as she dug around in the moist soil, until she found it. A mason jar painted bright yellow, with blue lady bugs on it. She unscrewed the lid, placed two dollars inside, and stuffed it into her backpack. Picking up her backpack and slinging it over one shoulder, she took her first step away from everything familiar and unwelcome. She remembered all the golden moments with her father. The lady bug jar they painted together, the tire swing, and the heart they carved into a tree they had found while exploring. Squeezing these memories tight in one last embrace, she said goodbye.
She must have walked for at least half an hour before she paused at a tree with low hanging branches. Rage filled her lungs like they were a hot air balloon. "Are you proud of my accomplishments dad? Huh? Give me an answer! Tell me what to do! I've been slowly drowning in moms drunkenness ever since you've left. All I need is help." She sank down at the bottom of the tree, allowing a tear to escape her eye. She placed a hand on the tree, letting her fingers find a groove to trace. Her face went blank when she realized what she was tracing. She was at the tree her father was buried under. She pressed her chest against the tree and wrapped her arms around it, letting her tears fall onto the bark. Her eyes didn't want to look, but something forced her to look at what her fingers traced. It was exactly what she thought it was, a heart.
Parish laid at the base of the tree, letting the warm summer air comfort her. She reminisced about all the wonderful times she had spent with her father and told him what she wanted out of life. "I don't want to have to hide my insecurities from my own mother. I want to live an exciting life! I want to experience some other emotion rather than pure hatred and sadness. I wish for a devoted love. I want to die heroically like you did. I want a story." Her voice faded to a whisper as her eyes captured the stars again.
Parish's mind started to slow as the summer air cooled, unleashing the stars. Some shown so bright, you could barely see the faint light of another ones right next to it. Parish's gaze locked on one in particular. The star would fade until you could barely see it, then come back as one of the brightest stars in the sky. She could feel the comforting words of a story her father loved to tell her when she was little, "Don't let envy drive you mind to gold; for if gold is what you desire, let it turn to ash and scatter."
She could feel a deeper connection with her father. She connected her father to the star. Weak one moment, then the strongest light in the sky the next. Even though at times, she could barely see the light, it was always there. Spending millions of light years traveling to shine, for possibly, a single person.