Trigesimus Secundus Gradus

Ethan squirmed over the mattress of plump switchgrass, trying to settle. Several times he had felt comfortable only to be prodded under the shoulder by a rock or tickled on the cheek by a limp blade. The rock would need to be excavated from the natural bed and the loose blade plucked from its root and tossed aside. While Ethan wrestled with his section of the field, the sky above ripened into dusk.

At last, Ethan was satisfied with his creation. He inhaled deeply, first with his chest, then with his belly. He exhaled through his nose, allowing his eyes to fall open as they focused on the bath of colors spread before him. His vision of the sky was undisturbed by dark silhouettes of switchgrass blades; his labor plucking them up had guaranteed him a clear view. All there was for him to do was breathe and enjoy the purples and oranges and yellows far above. 

He considered each of the colors. His eyes greeted them individually before his mind examined their contribution to the painting which they composed. As lone colors, he decided, most of them were rather dull. It was where they wove together amidst the clouds (blending here, sharply contrasted there, bitten by a shadow here, look how that cloud is tearing the orange in two!) where they became beautiful. Beautiful, not like a painting, but rather like a dance.

Then, there was nothing to do but wish the hues farewell. On Ethan’s left, night had emerged over the horizon. Its darkness sapped the other side of the sky of her color, ushering the redder tones away and replacing them with blues and grays. 

Oh, Ethan observed, that is a new color. It’s wonderful. Even alone, it was surely not dull. Whatever should it be called?

He was distracted at that moment by a bright light which he had not noticed before. Now, it commanded his attention wholesale. It was the first star of the night, which was still maturing on the left horizon. Alone in the black bubble of night it shimmered as if shivering in a bitter, snowless winter. Ethan himself would’ve shivered if not for the warm zephyr that passed over him. His lips curled into a smile as he imagined that he had opened an oven door; that was how warm the gust had been. He listened to the wind as it played upon the switchgrass like fingers playing upon a harp.

Inside the oven was a freshly-baked apple pie. It looked as perfect now as it was every year. The fork broke through the flaky crust. The tender apple slices gave way to the prongs, now warmed by the pie filling. It steamed as Ethan brought the fork up to his mouth. It tasted as perfect now as 

“—ever. Thank you so much, Dad,” Ethan said with a smile, setting the plate and fork in the sink.

Ethan sighed with contentment, the warmth of his body now sustained by his gratitude, undisturbed by any further breezes. His head rolled gently, creating a defined bowl in the switchgrass mattress. He delighted in a number of memories, savoring them like he had with the colors before. Unlike the colors, though, each memory could be cherished alone. His thankfulness grew even as the sky grew crowded with stars.

Ethan’s chest fluttered, as it sometimes does when one is falling asleep but does not want to. His eyes snapped open and he shook his head a little, quite surprised at the totality of the blackness before him; there remained no hint of the day to his right.

He explored the stars. The first one of the night was too well hidden among its peers, though he had tried to find it again. Ethan was not an astronomer, and he could not identify a single constellation. Save, of course, for the Dippers. Anyone could find the Dippers. To his eye, the stars have no particular order. They’re like clouds. Look at this bunch, here. Together, they look like a knight upon a horse. Though, I could easily tell them to be a butterfly instead. “They” is arbitrary, itself. Why not include these two, as well, and make an ice cream cone? He amused himself like this for quite some time before he decided that all the shapes were equally meaningless, including the Dippers. Together, the stars meant nothing. But the sun is a star. And without it, I wouldn’t be looking at these.

“Why is that star there,” he wondered aloud.

He was overcome by a chill. He crossed his arms and rubbed them with his palms. Warmed, he sat up to stretch, and for the first time since laying down, took in his surroundings. The field was blessed with the starlight (the moon was not out tonight). The subtle white of the stars grazed the grasses and trees and stones enough to make them visible. Color, of course, had dissolved into the atmosphere with the sunset. But the silhouettes remained. Ethan felt as if he was in a dream. Then, he looked further away, at the tree line on the edge of the field, and saw that it was black. A purer black than even the night sky, because the trees had no stars within them. Ethan tensed up, shifting his leg as if to spring himself up. He scanned the blackness there, imagining a great wolf bounding out of the black. The details of the wolf’s body were hidden from view; Ethan could only see it by the horrid blotch it made against the starlit grass. Ethan turned to run but was frozen. Closer and closer the wolf was until it leapt, finally, and Ethan—

Realized that he was holding his breath. He released it, and it shook. Feeling silly, he laid himself back down on the natural mattress he had formed, and turned his attention back to the sky. 

That could happen, though. Ethan’s thoughts began to spiral. He worried for the future and feared what it held. There were worse creatures than the wolf conjured in his mind. What of it? He finally shouted to himself. He breathed several breaths and focused on the stars, putting his mind at ease again.

His eyes returned to the star. He stared at it for a moment, then two, then more. His mind was silent. Then, the star is there because it exists, and by existing it has obeyed. What does it care if it shines tomorrow or not over my world?

“We share the same duty.”