You haven’t come home since the supernova.
I can’t say I’m surprised.
In our living room, the contents of our storage boxes radiate out around me in my own shabby reenactment of the event, books and decorations strewn about like stellar debris. I might have grown a bit frantic, looking for the star chart; the telescope was a casualty of my search.
We don’t need it anymore, anyway.
Our star hangs low in the sky, brighter than the moon. I could take our wedding vows out of their silver frame and read them by its light.
On the tv, newscasters natter on about the Chandrasekhar limit, pretending they understand what little science they cram into their heads during commercial breaks.
All that matters to me is the name of our star, the one I wished on ten years ago, asking the heavens to make you love me.
Stars get new names when they go supernova. Did you know that?
I wonder if the shock wave is comprised of broken wishes, if nebulae are the stuff of dead dreams.
It’s been three days. I wish you’d call.