I heard, when I was little, that stars turn into black holes when they die. They twist and writhe and collapse and swallow up everything in their path. I am not entirely sure how true this is – I never understood Physics, you see. Still, when I was little, as I said, I used to turn my head skywards, child-eyes fixed on the blanket night, wondering if I’d see a little pinprick of light blink out, and then devour everything – our house, our furniture, our dog and our cat, us.
I liked wishing, then. I wished on birthday candles, and repeating numbers on digital clocks, and eyelashes, and dandelions, blown into the wind. But never on stars; if they exploded and turned into black holes and devoured everything – our house, our furniture, our dog and our cat, us -, the wish might not come true.
It’s harder to see the stars, now – I live in a proper city, and there’s too much light pollution. Still, I look up, and I squint, and the most I can make out are planes flying in and out of the airport near my flat. They’re not quite the same; they blink red and white, and they’re awfully loud, but I like them. If I believed in wishing, still, perhaps I’d wish on commercial flights.
Apparently, they’re less likely to explode than stars, but I’m not sure – I still don’t understand Physics, you see.
Rosie is twenty years old and is studying Anthropology at university – she wants to work in publishing (sort of).