stars

"What are stars made of?" She asked.

Father and daughter sat together on a warm summer night, the sky clear and free of pollution. Klara was four years old and growing curious - "why?" seemed to be her favorite word nowadays. Her fathers encouraged this, answering what they knew and finding answers for what they didn't. Apollo didn't think this way anything out of the ordinary.

"That's an interesting question," he started. "Stars are made up of gas--"

She giggled. "You said gas."

"You've been spending too much time with Gruncle Datz," he muttered. "No more toilet humor, okay?"

"Okaaaaay!" She whined, plopping herself onto her fathers lap. She looked up at him, "Tell me 'bout stars."

So he did. He explains their galaxy in words that are familiar - he says the exact phrases Clay had used.

Klara knew about Clay, vaguely. He was Dad's best friend, but he's gone now. There's a photo of him at their home shrine, among others. When she asked why there are so many pictures, Klavier simply told her they've lost many friends, and it's a way to remember them. She asked why they don't have Aunt Rafya or Aunt Pearl channel them. He sighed and told her it's complicated.

"There are a lot of emotions to consider," Klavier had said. It was odd - Vati seemed to know everything, but now he was at a loss. "Sometimes you learn to live without someone, and seeing them again only makes things harder. Dad really doesn't like to talk about it. It makes him feel bad."

"Okay," She said solemnly, a new emotion for her. "Can you tell me more when I'm older?"

"That's my line," he chuckled. "I suppose so."

--

Space remained an interest of hers ever since that night under the stars. It waned sometimes, but she'd always come back.