Look Up

"You ever just look up?" My dad had asked me one night. And as any twelve year old boy would have, I thought that was a silly question. Pretty corny for my middle school self, who was convinced that I needed to be a 'cool' kid who didn't spend his time staring at the sky or counting stars, but instead playing baseball.

"No, not really?" I questioned him, and he smiled a little bit. I remember that solely because he followed it with the heartiest lesson I'd ever been given up until then.

"You should sometime. I know it's not anything exciting like Blockbuster or-"

"That's not a thing anymore, Dad."

"Right," he said, swinging back and forth on the swing chair with me. "I sure enjoyed it though."

It was dark out when we got home because I had a game that night. I'd hit the best home run of my life in front of my whole family, sprinted between bases and slid into that home plate like it was my MLB debut. Everyone had been cheering. The team was idolizing me. We took our huge water jug and poured it on Coach Coman, celebrated with ice cream, and it was the best night of my life.

The drive home was just as sweet. Dad was proud, which would make anyone happy, but it made me the happiest kid in the world. Not because it was hard to make him proud; he thought any achievement of mine was worth a trophy, but because this time I felt proud of myself too. Baseball could've put me on top of the world when I was having fun.

We'd pulled into the driveway and right as I met the door, Dad called for me to hold up. I nearly dropped my ice cream as I slid to a stop, and he caught up eventually with my baseball bag in hand and an amused scrunch to his face.

"You had a good game tonight, man." He said, setting my bag down on one of the porch steps.

"Thanks, can we go inside?"

"Yeah of course, I just wanted to show you something. Maybe talk for like a couple seconds."

I agreed, and that led us to the swing chair, where we swung past his odd nostalgic attachment to Blockbuster and to the sky. Something I'd always known he had a liking for, but not as much until that night.

"Just look up there for a split second."

I did.

"Notice anything? Or is it like a bunch of specks to ya?"

I was an honest kid, like most. "Kind of just white specks. Why?"

"Well those are all stars. You are in middle school, so I figured you know that by now, but there's a lot more to them."

"Like?" I'd caught myself looking up to meet where his eyes laid. He was persuasive.

"Those lights you see, AKA the stars," he pointed to the speckled night, "is very, very far away. And by the time the light from one of those stars gets to us, it's probably been millions of years."

"Millions?"

He stood up, walking forward to the railing of the porch and leaning on it. He didn't blink when he spoke.

"Millions. So in a way, we're looking right into the past. Those stars could be long gone by now, and we can still only see the light."

I was still in the chair, swinging back and forth taking huge licks of my ice cream. I never bit into one, because it chilled my front teeth until they hurt, but licking it worked just fine. I watched Dad leaning over the post, and in response to my full-mouthed silence, he continued.

"And the best part is that right here on our tiny little dot, we have life. Each other. Baseball games."

"I do love baseball." I agreed.

"I guess what I'm keeping you out in the cold for bud, is just to say I'm proud of you. Always will be, and just like the stars I'm getting all sappy about, no matter how far you go I'll still be proud of you. Past or present, as long as you can see that I am."

"Thanks, Dad." I smiled, lips smeared in white ice cream, and as we walked inside it marked a tradition between me and him that stood for years.

My senior night was the last I'd gotten before running off to college out of state on scholarship, and by then he'd developed gray streaks in his remaining hair and a balding spot on the crown of his head. He hated losing his hair more than anything and wore hats more than not to compensate for it, while insisting nobody mention it, although nobody had before anyways.

He was gazing up at that night sky again. I was holding a chocolate ice cream. I'd grown my sweet tooth since being twelve, and a little patience and understanding, too. I shared his love for the sky, and together we looked into it, having a moment I knew wouldn't last forever, but at least until next time.

"Y'know, in all the times we've come out here, I think tonight is my favorite." He'd said.

"Why's that, Dad?"

"It feels nice outside. Cool but not bad-chilly like it normally is."

"Is that all?" I licked my ice cream.

"No, no, no," he corrected. "It's also my favorite because soon, it'll be me watching them stars while your off and becoming a grown man on me."

"Ah, don't make me feel bad jerk." We laughed together. He continued swinging in the chair with me.

"When you look up there, you notice how none of the stars shine the same?"

I nodded. I figured one of his lessons were inbound, and over the years I'd gotten used to hearing them. They weren't always wanted but always needed, and with this likely being the last time I'd hear one for awhile, I listened. I listened harder than I'd listened before, and my ears could have bled if deep listening took actual muscle effort.

"Tell me why you think that is."

"I mean, I think it's because they're different sizes. Brighter stars are bigger, smaller ones smaller, it's pretty basic stuff Dad."

He chuckled.

"That's a pretty textbook answer. You are a bright kid," he teased. "But I like to see the stars as people. They don't shine the same as one another and sure aren't in the same place, either. And if you really, and I mean really want to know why they are any different, you'd have to learn about that star. Where it's from. Why it's so dull. So bright.

"I really do like to see them as people, son. And I recommend you try it, too. Be an astrologist here on our dot, learn about every person you can, because you won't know why they shine or don't shine unless you use a telescope. You'd be surprised at just how little people know about one another, and just how big they think they know the world."

Speechless, I could only take it in as he spoke to me for the rest of that breezy, warm night. I took his words to college, met tons of people I loved, my wife who shines brighter than anything else. He was right that every person is different, but I had learned early to appreciate that. I had two beautiful kids: a son and a daughter. My son ended up playing in a youth basketball league. Daughter didn't mind any athletics, but she is the most talented artist I've seen for her age.

Although his words of wisdom and perfection as not only my idol, but a man, eventually cost us both. He passed away far too soon after the birth of my daughter from a heart attack. While it was one of the hardest things I ever had to bear, from losing my dad to my best friend, I knew that the least I could do was look up and hope to see his light. He was proud of me still, I knew that much.

And now, as a father myself, I can only hope that I am an image of what he was. A blurry one, a vague one, no matter how similar. Any resemblance to him would be the biggest pride I could have.

But if I could pick how similar to him I could be, I'd pick similar enough to show up to my sons basketball game. A dramatic championship against a team called The Blazers, only one point behind in the last couple seconds. Tension high and thin. My boy sprinting down the court, ball in hand, passing to a teammate. Continuing his run, receiving the ball, leaping up, sinking the layup perfectly as the buzzer rings.

I go wild from the stands, popcorn is everywhere, the opposing team yells some things they shouldn't say at a youth game, but nobody really cares anymore. The court is flooded, parents sprinting to their kids, me running to mine. I throw him in the air before the team steals him away, where he and his little friends all cheer the night off.

Afterwards, they all convince one another's parents to go out for ice cream somehow at this hour. We drive out, dine in a Dairy Queen not too far way while the parents all chat about good times and next seasons expectations.

The drive home being surreal. My son in the back, chowing down on some strawberry ice cream ( personally I could never bear the sweetness ) and smiling from ear to ear.

We pull into the driveway and he hops out of the car giddily with his backpack still in the backseat. I grab it for him. As he raises his hand to knock on the door, I call out.

"Hey, bud, hold up a second."

"Okay!" He calls out, waiting as I set his bag down on the yard in front of the door.

"What's going on?"

I smile. "Oh, nothing, I just wanted to talk for a second. Me and your Papaw used to do something like it when I was a little older than you are."

He nods, taking gulps of his snack like it'll melt in the nights cold.

"You know, bud, I'm real proud of you. Not just for tonight, or for the game which I know is amazing, but for you being you."

He grins even more, taking a pause from his cone to come give a hug.

I would take the moment in, turn behind me and look up. As he parts from me, I'd lower my much stiffer body towards the ground while he sits beside me. He'd seem confused, but happy nonetheless, and it would take a lot to speak to him without tearing up. From joy, and from memory.

"Bud," I'd mention, pointing a finger towards the speckled sky. "You ever just look up?"