Counting Stars
My mother believed that the stars were the higher power. She believed that once a person dies, they become a star. My father, a follower of the Zentopian Church, mostly dismissed this. Their views on the afterlife often conflicted with each other. Whenever the conversation of personal beliefs came into fruition, my household became a battlefield.
I was never brought up with religion because of this. My parent's conflicting views made it impossible for me to practice one. My mother would tell me about the stars, and then the following day, my father would bring me to a Zentopian Cathedral to listen to sermons and pray.
Of course, during these sermons I never actually prayed. Most of the time I would just bow my head and think of trivial things: dresses, play-dates, and snack-time. I never really thought that it would make a difference. That is, until my mother fell ill.
She died a painful death.
Magic Deficiency Syndrome is a much more agonizing death than one might think. I sat by my mother day and night, holding her hand as she became weaker and weaker. She wailed in pain as the last bouts of magic energy drained from her body. I can still remember her last breath. It wheezed as it came from her mouth.
Never had I wished that I had just prayed during those sermons. If I had, perhaps she would have been saved. Maybe this was punishment for my disobedience to the God Zentopia? Or maybe it was questioning whether we become a part of the heavens after death?
I looked to the stars every night after she died. Trying to find some sort of proof that she was somewhere better. I tried and tried, but there were just too many stars to keep track of.
My father held her funeral in a Zentopian Cathedral. It was the same one we attended every Sunday. I tried to protest this, as she wasn't a believer of Zentopia. But when I saw the pain in my father's eyes I realized that not only had I lost my mother, but he lost the love of his life. Out of respect, I allowed her to be mourned in the Cathedral.
The ceremony was beautiful. Lights decorated the high ceilings of the massive structure, making the building look as if it was embellished with stars. The scent of flowers flowed through the premises, as the pews had been adorned with them. The most beautiful feature of the ceremony, though, was my mother. Her blonde hair, curled in ringlets, laid neatly on the bedding of the coffin, and her white dress made her look like an angel.
In that moment, I realized that my mother looked just as heavenly as the stars.
After her funeral, I had no more questions. I still do count the stars, and I still do attend sermons with my father. Yet, that sense of anger and frustration of the afterlife has been extinguished. I know now that even though my mother is gone, she was alive. She was a star in her own right. She lit up the lives of many as celestial bodies do to the night sky. Her imprint on others is and always will be as everlasting as the stars.
It may not be the answer to all matters of the afterlife, but it gives me peace.
A/N: I've been wanting to write this for a while. I enjoy writing abstract stories like this that feel almost like a diary entry. I don't really think that this sounds like the inner voice of a child whatsoever, but nonetheless I'm still pleased with how this turned out.