The shard had almost reached the cottage roof when Thomas lifted the jar.
His fingers shook against the glass. Above him, the familiar star had thinned to a weak point, and a small fleck of its light slipped loose. It fell slowly enough for him to see its path, fast enough that he had no time to decide twice.
“Thomas?” his mother called from the doorway.
He looked at her. She was holding the doorframe with one hand, her face turned toward where she thought he stood. The light had faded too far for her to pick out the falling shard. She could still see the jar when it shone close to her; she had watched the first spark glow in its glass and smiled as though someone had opened a window.
Thomas looked up again.
The astronomer’s warning sat in his mind with the weight of a stone: every capture took a precious memory. The first had taken the lullaby. Thomas had spent the afternoon trying to coax its tune back from the blank space it left. He could remember his mother’s hand smoothing his hair. He could remember lying warm beneath the quilt. The song itself had gone.
The falling light was nearly at the roof.
He could leave the jar down. The shard would pass the cottage and vanish into the dark. His mother would have only the little glow already caught, and the star would keep dimming.
She had asked him to tell her what the sky looked like tonight. He had described the star as best he could, and she had listened with her chin lifted, searching his words for the shape she could no longer find with her eyes.
Thomas moved beneath the shard.
He held the jar out with both hands.
The fleck touched the glass and slipped through it. A pale line ran around the inside, shivering once before settling beside the first spark. The two lights rested together, small and clear.
For a moment, Thomas felt only the jar’s cool rim against his palms. Then the yard changed around him. The old basin by the back step came to mind, its chipped blue edge wet from the roof. He was little enough that his feet had not reached the ground when he sat on the stool. His mother had folded a scrap of flour paper into a boat, then let him launch it in the water.
“You have to give it a name,” she had told him.
He had called it North because it kept nudging toward the wall, where the water drained away. His mother had laughed and rescued it with two fingers before the paper went soft. Then she had placed it in his hands, and together they had sent it sailing again.
The memory came so warmly that Thomas nearly smiled.
Next
When Thomas takes his mother and the jar to the astronomer, will he tell her how much of their shared past he has already lost?
He stared at the jar. He remembered the basin existed. He knew his mother had stood beside it. But when he tried to picture her leaning over the water, the picture would not come. He reached for the sound of her laugh and found the same closed door that held the lullaby.
His mother had taken a step into the yard. “Did it fall?”
Thomas swallowed. “I caught it.”
“Can you bring the jar here?”
He carried it to her. Her fingers found the glass, then paused above the two sparks. The second one made a faint silver shine against her knuckles. She leaned close, and her face softened.
“Oh,” she said. “There are two now.”
Thomas watched the light reflect in her eyes. She could not see the star above the roof anymore. Here, with the jar between her hands, she could see what had come from it.
“It’s brighter,” he said.
“It is.” She turned the jar carefully, following the glow as it moved across the glass. “Tell me what the star looks like.”
He described the thin point above the chimney and the darker patch around it. He tried to make the words clear for her, to set the star where she could reach it. She listened with her head tilted, and the smile stayed on her face.
“Thank you,” she said.
The words pressed against the place where the memory had been. Thomas gripped the jar tighter.
His mother lowered her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Thomas.”
He looked down. The jar held two lights. The price had come out of him a second time, and he could not pretend it was only the lullaby. “I forgot something.”
She turned toward his voice. “What did you forget?”
He tried to tell her. “The basin. The paper boat.”
Her mouth parted. “You remember the boat?”
“No. I remember that you said it.” He looked toward the back step. The basin sat there beneath the eaves, dark and dry. “I know we had one. I can’t see it in my head.”
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Then she reached for him, and he moved close enough to let her find his sleeve. Her fingers closed around the cloth.
“You called it North,” she said.
The name gave him nothing. Thomas wanted it to. He wanted the paper’s damp folds, her hands guiding his, the laugh she had just mentioned. He tried to make a picture from her words, but they stayed words.
His mother’s thumb rubbed once over the sleeve at his wrist. “That was our little boat.”
Thomas felt his face tighten. “I can’t remember it.”
She drew him toward her. He let the jar hang between them, careful not to knock it against the doorframe. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he pressed his cheek to her dress. He wanted to ask her to tell him every detail before another part of their past slipped away. He could not make the question come out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Thomas shook his head against her. He had caught the shard for her. He had seen her watch the new light, and that had mattered. Still, her apology hurt more than the astronomer’s warning. His mother had not taken the memory. She could not give it back by knowing it.
They stayed that way until the jar’s glow warmed the front of his shirt. Then she drew back and touched his cheek, searching his face with her fingers.
“How long have you been doing this?”
Thomas went still.
“I saw you take the jar outside,” she said. “The first night. I heard the door, then saw the light in the glass when you came back. I thought you would tell me when you were ready.”
“You knew?”
“I knew you were trying to keep the star close.” She lowered her hand to the jar. “I didn’t know what it cost.”
He looked at her. “I didn’t know either. Not until after the first time.”
Her fingers found the glass again. “And tonight?”
“I knew it would take something.”
The second spark shone through the space between her hands. She did not pull away from it. Her face held the light for a moment, and Thomas saw how much she wanted to keep seeing it, even now that the jar had already taken two memories from him.
“Can you tell what it took?” she asked.
“The paper boat.”
She closed her eyes. “I remember.”
He wanted to ask her to tell the story. He also wanted to keep the little pieces he still owned before hearing them turned into someone else’s account. His hands tightened around the jar.
His mother seemed to hear the answer he had not given. She touched his hair, then let her hand rest at the back of his neck.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “take me to the astronomer. Bring the jar.”
Thomas looked from her face to the two sparks. “You want to go?”
“I want to understand what it’s taking from you.” Her fingers closed around his. “And I want to see the light while I still can.”
The jar rested between their joined hands. Above the roof, the cottage star held on, dim and distant. His mother could not see it. Tomorrow she would ask the astronomer what the jar took, and Thomas would have to answer with the memories he still had.