Constellations
by Ashley DeVrieze
My son is mixing his mythologies,
trying to make a pattern, flesh out
understanding from Disney movies
and Percy Jackson, figures
in Vacation Bible School stories
introduced by the neighbor kids.
“Well, Zeus has to answer to Jesus,”
he says at dinner. “Is Heaven the same
as Olympus?” he asks, reaching
for watermelon, and I realize I
need to offer some clarity.
“They’re different,” I say, trying
to explain all the ways
to understand the world, but he
has moved on, dousing ramen
with ketchup, glancing sideways
to see how I’ll react.
“I thought Thor was the God
of Lightning? Or is Zeus?” he asks
at bedtime, Marvel comic spread
across his blanket, and I prepare
myself for a speed round, questions
crafted to stave off sleep.
“They both are,” I offer, proffering
a look to quiet his ready interruption.
“Thor was created by different people,
but he’s similar to Zeus in some ways.”
“His dad didn’t eat him,” he says,
and I nod and fill his glass with water.
We read a book about a pigeon
and I tuck his blanket in, whisper
“Goodnight,” as his forehead twists.
“But Thor can’t come back from
the dead like Jesus,” he yawns,
and I tell him I don’t know enough
about Norse mythology to answer.
On Saturday we look at constellations
and I help him find Perseus, argue
about which stars are Medusa’s
severed head. I fall back on the
Big Dipper and change gears,
explain that lots of cultures share
their stories through the stars.
When he asks why they always
use the stars, I pause.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Maybe it’s because they appear
at bedtime or because they
feel magical. Maybe heroes
in the stars can protect us,
even while we sleep.”
“They can watch over us,”
he whispers, and I have the feeling
I’ve done something right.
For once, he’s quiet,
and we look up together,
thinking about heroes
and love and stars.