It’s one of those nights when I look at the sky and name the constellations.
The winds are just as chilly as they should be on a winter night and the sky is just as clear as it should be after the clouds have been swept away. I rub my palms together and blow a puff of warm air into them in the hope of keeping myself warm.
I look up. There are thousands of diamonds studded in the sky. I start naming groups of them.
I name the first group with the name of my mother. Her tears were just as shiny as the stars. I name the second group after my father; his hair was just as white as the stars.
I name the third after my brother because I was reminded of his pearly whites. I named the fourth after my lover. The stars reminded me of her beautiful, bright eyes.
I name the rest in groups after the names I had thought of for my children and by them, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open after every single blink.
Stars make me sleep. They always have. And on the nights when there are none of them, I just can’t sleep. It feels like my family isn’t around; a part of me isn’t around.
But little does anyone ever know whether I sleep or I am wide awake.
You tell me, who cares if the dead man in the coffin under the ground is asleep or awake? Who cares if he is naming his own constellations or sleeping underneath the same?