My father hid our yellow stars under his pillow, a reminder that hiding in the basement favored being outside wearing them. Those yellow stars illuminated my world in the dank cellar.
My father, the storyteller: “Before you were born, it was written in the stars your name, Simcha flew into your mother’s head the moment you breathed air. Simcha lit up the sky, stitched together by fate, hope, and circumstance.”
Stars, the tangible yellow ones and the gaseous ones I imagined in the night sky became my best company. At night, I swallowed each one, devoured the hope of light.
Author’s Note: My stepfather, who recently passed away, told me the story of how when he was in hiding in Poland during World War II as a child, he used to dream of the stars in the night sky. As an adult, he then remembered how in some way the yellow stars handed out to Jews, was not a bad memory for him because his father made up stories during the day to entertain him. I loved hearing these stories.
Meagan Grant is a mama, a writer, a teacher, a reader, and an overthinker. When she has a moment’s peace, she blogs at Sassy Scriptor and various publications. Her love of language began at five under her covers with a flashlight reading Beverly Cleary’s Ramona and Her Father. Her writing has been featured on The Mighty, Her View From Home, Scary Mommy, and The Ma Books, amongst other publications. She is currently pursuing an M.F.A. in Creative Writing.