Star Song

 By Sam McCullagh

When I was five, I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to fly to the stars and grasp them between my fingers, watch the liquid gold run down my arms and seep into my skin, so I could glow too. Imagine my disappointment when my mother told me stars were impalpable.

So, I’m studying to be the next best thing: an astrophotographer. If I can’t touch the stars, I’m happy to spend my life admiring them from afar.

But tonight, I find myself slamming my laptop shut while editing photos of constellations for my college’s science publication. I storm out of my dorm and tumble through the thick woods behind it until I reach a cleared-out hill raised as high as the trees. It’s the closest I can get to the sky from here.

I stiffen as I reach the top; unlike other nights, another being is on the hill. Did an alien invade it? No, he’s no alien; he’s a fallen star, his hair as gold and shining as the sun. What’s a star doing on my lowly hill?

He smiles and waves at me. I return the gesture and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Altair. You?”

“Estelle. Do you come here often?”

“No, just today. I heard there was supposed to be a meteor shower. You wanna sit?” Altair pats the ground next to him.

I guess I can be his human guest. I join him on the ground and lie back, listening. From the silence, I hear a euphony descending from the cosmos. Each entity sings different songs of sadness and joy, anger and patience. But they all combine in wondrous harmony. I’d give anything to join the tune.

“I’ve seen some of your photos in the school’s journal.”

I almost didn’t hear him, his voice blending with the others. “Really?”

“Yeah, I love your work.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make the sky look so big?”

Altair’s voice separates from the music. I pause and look at him. “I experiment. Like, if the stars stand out more in my sight, then I play with the contrast. Or if it looks less expansive—”

“But how do you see it like that to begin with?”

How do you see the sky for the masterpiece it is? That’s like asking someone how to breathe. I imagine being a star and looking at space like a photo I took. And suddenly, the sky stops singing.

I reply, “The stars sing to me. Songs of all kinds that blend. And when I listen, they show me the shades of life.”

“Do you ever sing along?”

“No way. My song could never compare to theirs.”

“But I thought the stars sang of all life. Isn’t your song alive?”

I glance at him, then look to the sky. The song starts again, and meteors join the tune.

The notion that I could sing with the stars makes me feel five again. I’m still that little girl, yearning to fly up and lasso the constellations, swallow them whole so I can glow too.

So, I sing:

Whatever you are
Strong or slight
In the dark
All souls are bright

And I glow.




Sam McCullagh is a new writer interested in short stories, poems, and essays. She is currently studying for her undergraduate degree in English adolescent education at SUNY New Paltz.