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My father always had a favorite star.

“It’s my star,” he’d say, pointing into the deep night sky. “It looks down upon me every night and keeps me safe.”

As a child I never understood how a star could be a source of comfort to someone, but my father’s soft brown eyes always looked at that star with such fondness that I didn’t ask questions.

My father and I spent countless summer nights laying in the grassy meadow next to our house, stargazing. Some nights I would fall asleep nestled into his shoulder, and he would pick me up in his big comforting arms and carry me home.  

But those days feel so long ago.


When my father’s time came, it was far too sudden. No one was expecting it, I least of all. He was the strongest person I’d ever known, and someone that strong couldn’t die.

I wish the universe hadn’t proved me wrong.


I still go stargazing in that meadow every cloudless night. And every night I go, I look upon my father’s favorite star with the same fondness in my eyes as he once held in his.

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