“What a beautiful night,” Oliver says, breaking the silence. Millions of stars are visible. It is beautiful. Beautiful like Amber.
“Yeah,” I respond. I see my favorite constellation. It’s not a real one, I don’t think, but it’s one that kind of formed itself before my eyes, the night before I died. I see it exactly as if it were yesterday, despite being fifteen years ago.
The stars form to create an angel. I thought I’d become an angel. My parents think I am one. I remember reading a CaringBridge post that said that on the Halloween after I died, a trick-or-treater came to my home dressed as an angel. My mShe om gave the nine-year-old a hug and told her that she reminded her of her daughter. When the young girl asked to see me, my mom, with tears in her eyes, said that wasn’t possible. When she asked why, my mom said it was because I’m a real live angel now. If only she knew how wrong she was.
Because in reality, I’m not. I am alive. But I’m not an angel. Maybe that’s good, or maybe that’s bad. If I was an angel, I would be with my parents, but they wouldn’t know. Soon, I’ll be with them and they will know. But will they believe me…that’s the question.
That’s a key factor that I always forget to address; the entire plan comes crumbling down if my parents don’t believe me. Well, do I forget it, or do I want to forget it?
“Have I ever told you about the angel stars?” I ask, even though I know I haven’t.
“No, what are they?”
“It’s kind of ironic, actually. The night before I died, I saw seven stars in the shape of an angel. It’s not a real constellation, though, or at least I don’t think it is. Yet I always see it in the sky. I somehow think that my parents can see it too, even if they don’t see it in the way I do. We all see the same sky, Oliver, so it’s a way to connect me to them.”
After a moment of quiet, I say, “Do you see it?”
He shakes his head. I take his hand and point it toward the constellation. He takes a moment, and then he sees it.
“Wow, it really does look like an angel,” he says as his hand drops. “Yeah, it does.”
“That’s you, Amber,” Oliver tells me. I look at him.
I snort, but I can’t help but smile at his cheesy remark. “Yeah, I guess it is.”