Light drifts softly into my eyes. The hospital room is dim, and the heated blanket wraps me up firmly. The nurses finally agreed to take most of the needles out of me, so that I could sleep. Now, upon waking, I see Mom at the foot of my bed. She sees me open my eyes, and she runs her fingers through my hair. Her hands are so warm. Her hands are so human.
“Mom,” I say. My voice is so shot that no sound comes out, but she reads my lips, “What’s gonna happen?”
She holds my hand, “I don’t know, honey. But I’ll be here. I’ll be here.”
“Are the stars out?” I rasp. She tells me that they are, and I try to sit up. I’m not supposed to, but she doesn’t stop me.
She wheels my bed to the floor-to-ceiling window in my hospital room. I don’t know what’s below me. I just look up.
The Milky Way stretched thick across the sky. The stars are all so close to each other, I realize.
“Look,” says my mom, “Dawn,” and she slips her hands under my arms and lifts me up as if I were standing. We revel in closeness.
Light cleans me as the sun comes up on us.
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