An Atheist Introduction to Stardust

I work in the quietest town.

The snow mutes out the voices.

Even when the tourists come –

I barely hear a thing.

There is only one hospital,

so they come from as far as Skagway.

When I do my rounds,

I meet the most

adventurous, kind, interesting, welcoming, calming, beautiful people.

The snow would melt from the warmth.

They often stay through the night.

Sometimes the night is three hours,

sometimes it’s ten,

sometimes it’s like the moon has taken over.

Mr. Patrick,

an oil man,

came in on Tuesday morning.

He came up to me,

snow on his hat,

gloves worn through.

He said he ached.

He ached all over.

I put him in a bed

on the very top floor.

His fever struck at quarter to noon.

Doctors rushed in and out.

The hospital was humming,

all the bodies moving.

I was there when they told him:

his sickness was too great.

Anchorage was too far,

his time was almost gone.

He lay quietly,

I walked into his room.

The window curtains were drawn.

He stared at me -

at the cross at my throat.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

I was startled by his question,

but answered with a smile,

“Yes, sir.”

He said nothing.

I sat in the chair beside his bed,

“One day, everyone will meet their loved ones in heaven.”

And then he started to cry.

“I am a science man.

I am a physics man.

I am not a believer in heaven.

But how I wish I was.

How I wish I could know it’s not…

over.”

There was silence.

I placed my hand on his.

His aches were so real.

How scared he must have been.

I stood up.

I opened up the curtains.

The night was always clear.

I was far from the ocean –

I didn’t get those stormy clouds.

Above the snowy hills,

the little houses,

the families,

the laughter,

there were millions of stars.

“So you are a physics man.

So you know that all those stars,

they’re all gone.

We just see their memory.”

He watched the stars.

I went on.

“When a star explodes,

it breaks into a million little pieces,

and then it breaks again,

and again.

But do you know what happens then?”

He smiled,

weakly,

“Stardust.”

Like a whisper.

“Yes, Mr. Patrick.

You get stardust.

And that stardust swirls,

twirls,

shines,

glows,

then makes something.

Makes new stars,

new worlds,

new lives.

We are all made of little bits of stardust.”

His eyes were starting to close.

“And when we die,

when we finally need to go,

we are still the same –

stardust.

Someday,

we will get to live again.”

His aches were gone.

The man had gone.

Somewhere, he was waiting

until this life became a memory,

faded over time,

but turning into something new.