by Krymzen Hall

Created on: June 17, 2009

Daddy, can you see the stars? I can see them, Daddy.

"Mommy? Are you okay?" Chase, my six-year-old son, asks me.

"Of course," I answer as we sit in the planetarium's IMAX Theater. Actually, he'd caught me deep in thought. Anticipating this movie equals agony for me. I hear it's good. Nice and realistic. My son has been begging me to bring him for months. I'd procrastinated, hoping by some divine intervention that his elementary school would have taken him with other eager students during a field trip instead.

It's too painful, space. That majestic, dark wonderland, which, in reality, is comprised of unforgiving black holes and planets that are either too cold or too hot. My father, the astronomer, loved to show me the mystery that was gravitational pulls, equinoxes, and eclipses. I knew every constellation. On clear nights, we'd study the stars, he and I, until I swore I saw my name in lights. Then one night, he left my mother, and for some reason, thought she and I were a package deal, because I never saw him again.

It's hard enough when little reminders such as a picture or a cufflink make memories click. Throw in something as massive and repetitive as the night sky and anybody can see why I haven't been able to let go of his absence, and why I haven't been able to keep a relationship. Men always become collateral damage in my screwed up life.

People are starting to don their 3D glasses. My son looks at me, his innocent grin pleading with me to put mine on.

"Hey, Chase," I hear a little girl's sweet innocence behind me.

"Hey, Hanna," Chase responds.

She's with a man who I assume is her father. Her mother must be at the snack-bar getting drinks. Good. Three people. There are only two seats remaining in the row I'm sitting in so I don't have to worry about that family crowding us in a desperate attempt in letting our kids socialize.

"Mommy?" Chase begins. Here it comes. "Can they sit next to us? She's in my class."

"Well, we would but there are not enough seats, sweetie. I'm sure her mother would like to sit with her too."

In the true fashion of a six-year-old, Chase says, "She doesn't have a mommy."

"Chase!" I scream.

Hanna's father interjects. "It's alright. But it is just the two of us. However if you want, we can try to sit elsewhere."

"Of course not," I say, a little embarrassed.

"Mommy, let me sit next to Hanna. You sit here, okay?"

In other words, allow me to move so that Hanna takes my spot, and I end up sitting next to her father.

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