Bodega | Big Dipper, Little Sister

“Where have the stars gone?” I asked my spouse, thinking they were shrouded by a veil of thick clouds, or smog. Looking up, he replied, “They’re right there.” I was told by my doctor ten years ago my vision loss would happen slowly. So slowly, in fact, I sometimes forget it’s fading at all. I don’t remember the day I lost the stars. I must’ve looked up, and thought, What a cloudy night. Maybe I’ll see them tomorrow. Or maybe they disappeared one by one, flickering out like candle wicks, the moon a misshapen milk stain smeared across a dark slate of sky. I’ve always been afraid of the dark. My brother and I shared a room until we were teenagers, but I used to cry every night because he wouldn’t let me use my nightlight. One night he taught me which star was actually a planet, Venus, and showed me three stars that formed a crooked little line that he swore was the handle of the Big Dipper. My brother said that when I’m afraid, maybe I should look at Venus, or those three stars, and they’ll shine so bright, I won’t even notice the dark anymore. And for a while, that is what I did. But, now, I’ve lost the stars. The worst part? I’m still afraid of the dark, and with each passing year, I slip deeper and deeper into permanent black ink. Sometimes, when I’m feeling brave, I stand at the edge of the cliffs of my university town at night, look out at the sea, and I try so hard to see the navigation lights of the boats that I’m sure are there, bobbing on the surface. I like to imagine my brother is on one of those boats, even if I can’t see him, either. But I know he’s not. Somewhere, he’s lost in the darkness, too.

was

always

afraid of my brother but

maybe

afraid

him too.

148 – June 2025

By Sophie Cornwell

Big Dipper, Little Sister