Sky Dreams

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Monroe was six years old the first time her father, Andy Lancey, took her stargazing. They went up a little hill about seven minutes away from their house in Louisiana. A left onto Oak Street, a right down Main Street, and then before Guns Way, a small dirt road left civilization. It wasn't marked on any map. They would follow that for a few minutes, he would park, and then take her little hand in his as they walked upwards through trees. Eventually, they reached this wide open land. No trees, no bushes, none of those annoying city lights. Only a little girl and her father, bare feet and grass, the sound of crickets and nature, the stars.

They would count the stars. Or she would. She would cup her hands in the air and pretend she caught the tiny lights. Then she would count all the stars between her finger. Monroe could never count them all. She would always lose count after ten stars in because her father would tell her a joke or tickle her side causing her to erupt in a fit of giggles. She would then cry out, "Dad, you messed me up!"

He would laugh and she would start over until she grew tired, her eyelids drooping with pure childhood bliss. Then they would lay in silence, watching the stars.

One day, on a special night, her father said to her, "Monroe, I want you to pay close attention to the sky because if you do, you might see a shooting star. And that star will grant any wish of yours. But you have to look closely because these stars can come and go like that," and he would snap his fingers. And she stared with eyes as wide as a little kid's eyes could go.

So she turned her attention to the sky and watched. She had a new fixation; she watched, waited for that shooting star.

As she watched, her father chuckled at her amazed little face and said, "Keep on dreaming." But it wasn't in a sarcastic or mocking way. He truly wanted her to keep dreaming, hoping that her dreams someday manifested themselves into something real and meaningful. She didn't know it then, but Andy Lancey was teaching her to dream, to want, to pay attention to the details, to believe. He never wanted her to lose that innocence.

When the dark grew darker and they could no longer ignore her mother's calls, they headed back to the truck. Her father reversed down that dirt path and they would make their way back home. And little Monroe never took her eyes off the sky.

While her mother cooked dinner, Monroe would run outside onto the porch with her sketchpad and she would stare up at the stars. Not only did she want to catch a shooting star and make a wish, but she also wanted to capture that moment and make it last forever. She hoped that if she had that shooting star on paper, she could make a wish whenever she wanted. She started having dreams about shooting stars and the wishes she made. She wished to ride a unicorn, to eat all the ice cream in the world, to meet Santa Claus, and when Robin got hit by a car, she wished she had her dog back. She drew all of these wishes coming true as soon as she woke up. This was her thing--dream and draw. Eventually, the shooting star stopped appearing in her dreams; she would just have adventures in her dreams. She would wake up and she would draw them in black and white.

Then one day, on that same street that Robin was hit, her father got into an accident coming home, and the doctors couldn't save him. So she went to bed that night, and she dreamt about that shooting star for the first time in years. Monroe wished that she had her father back and that they were on that hill, stargazing once more. She woke up and she drew that hill and the pair laying down, the wet grass staining their backs. And she drew a star flying through the sky. After that, her nights were dreamless, her mornings empty.

***

Monroe had to go to school the next day. She hadn't seen her mother since Sunday and wasn't really sure she wanted to. She got up at seven, showered, brushed her teeth, put her disorderly hair into a puff atop her head, and threw on something clean before making her way downstairs. The calendar was no longer on the fridge and Monroe wondered for a moment if her mother moved it for the same reason it made Monroe uncomfortable. She opened the fridge and took out bread and butter, what she ate for breakfast most days.

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