Cancer gave my grandmother Daisy six months to live. That summer, on her porch under a starry sky, she began teaching me about constellations and family stories. At 13, I learned stars held tales of gods, heroes, and our ancestors. We spent evenings with chamomile tea and her leather notebook, exploring Cassiopeia, Orion, and the Pleiades through her telescope and stories.
When autumn brought her pancreatic cancer diagnosis, our ritual deepened. She gifted me a journal filled with star maps and family tales, weaving in dreams for my future—constellations like “The Scholar” and “The Lover.” As winter neared, her strength faded, but she kept writing, determined to finish before Orion returned. She died in February, under his watch, whispering, “Look for me in Cassiopeia.”
Her journal became my guide. I inherited her house and continued our stargazing ritual, adding my own stories. In college, I studied astrophysics, met my wife Scarlet, and later shared the journal with our daughter Phoebe. On that same porch, I showed Phoebe Cassiopeia, telling her Daisy’s star watches over us. A meteor streaked by, as if Grandma’s love still lit the sky. The stars carried her wisdom, connecting generations through stories of love, loss, and wonder, forever etched in the cosmos.
