Of the explosion, she shrugs an explanation: "Momfarts."
___
The kids tucked are into the guest room, and we stare at the stars and make ourselves believe they are more significant than they are, as we've done many nights before, many years before. The stars haven't changed, and we haven't either, except that we're a little bit older; the stars are still corpses, and those that we wish upon shot themselves long, long ago.
Big brother comes out crying: there are crickets in the room. The Girl rushes in to save the day, and it's cricket genocide so her babies can get a good night's sleep. She sings them to slumber, and I recount the nights I spent in strange beds, the nights I woke up and asked for my mom and found myself sleeping next to their friend, uncomfortably hot and frozen with a lack of familiarity. These nights didn't happen often, but I remember every one the same way you remember anything that's beyond the status quo. You don't remember all the science fairs your parents made it to, but you'll never forget the one they missed.
The kids can't sleep, so they cuddle with their mom on the lounge chair, and The Girl points out the shooting stars that happened before any of us were born.
I want so much for her to find a happiness equal to the infinite darkness that shrouds us.