The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: A Hard Silence: One daughter remaps family, grief, and faith when HIV/AIDS changes it all by Melanie Brooks

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                                        Epilogue

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No one had bothered to turn  on the  outside  lights,  and the  dim  glow
from the shaded  cottage windows  did  little  to  disperse  the  darkness
around  me  when  I stepped  out into the night.  The  air  was dewy and
warm  against  my  skin.  The  gravel  crunched under my flip flops as  I
followed  the   path  to our cottage. I  stopped halfway across  the  space
between  the two  buildings  and  tilted  my  head  back   to  look  at  the
stretch  of sky  overhead. Something  about  the  island  geography,  the
nearness  of  the  ocean,  made the sky feel bigger here. Stars punctured
the black, tiny pinpricks of light shaping into familiar constellations.
   “Here, I’ll help you trace it,” Dad’s  voice echoed  somewhere  deep  in
the  recesses  of my brain and a memory sharpened. We  were sprawled
side  by  side  on  a thick, shag carpet in the family room of our summer

cottage  in  New  Brunswick. The  lights  were  off so we could stare  out
at  the  night  sky  through  the panoramic window that took up most of
the  front  wall and showcased the view of the river. On this night when
I was  about  nine,  it  was so clear we could see satellites tracking paths
among  the  brilliant  sea  of  stars.  While Mom and David searched for
signs  of  the  anticipated  meteor  shower,  Michael and Mark had been
pointing  out  the  different  constellations, competing to see who could
spot them first.
   “I see Orion,” Mark declared with triumph.
   “I found that five minutes ago,” Michael said.
   I was still trying to locate the Big Dipper.
   Dad  closed  his  hand over mine and pointed  my  finger to a particu-
larly bright star. “That’s the North  Star,” he said. “Always  look for that
one  first.  It helps  you to clear the  clutter  of  all  the  other  ones.”  He
moved  my  finger in a straight line from that star to another bright one
a few inches below it. “Now this is the edge of the Big Dipper,” he said.
“It’s  made  up  of  these seven bright stars.” He  drew a shape  with  my
finger. “Think of a big soup ladle, or even the shape of a  wheelbarrow,”
he said.
   I  focused  my eyes on those stars as  he traced the  shape again.  And,
just  like   that, I  saw it. “There!”  I  cried, triumphant  satisfaction  and
wonder mingling in a single word.
   “There,”  Dad  said, and drew  my  finger back  up  to  the  North Star.
“Now,  see  if  you can  find  the Little Dipper too. The North  Star  is  at
the tip of its handle.”
   I found it right away. Dad released his grip on my hand,  and I  rested
my  head  against  his shoulder and stared up at  the Big Dipper and the
Little  Dipper,  tracing  their  lines with  my  finger over and over again.
The  two  constellations  stood out from all of the other stars. I felt  like
I’d been let in on an important secret.
   “From  now   on,   you’ll   always   know  how   to  find   them   without
anybody’s help,” Dad said.
   More  than  thirty  years later, the same starry canvas gazed down  on
me where I stood between the cottages and I couldn’t help feeling  that

infinite  space cluttered with so many of my  habitual  questions always
too  big for answers. Why didn’t the boys and Mom linger in their grief
the  way I did  when confronted with images of what  could  have been?
Why  weren’t  the words of regret and loss and longing I  so  wanted  to
speak  the same  words that  rested on  their  tongues? Why  were  they
so quick to shut  down moments  like  tonight  that opened up space  to
remember?  As  the disappointment of  yet  another  gathering of  unre-
alized  expectations  tried to take hold, a concession  funneled  into  my
mind.  I  couldn’t  know  what was inside of  them  any  more than  they
could  know  what  was  inside of me. A  fresh  question  surfaced.  Why
did  their  responses matter so much? And that night, for the first  time,
I considered a new answer.
   Maybe they didn’t.
   It  felt  like  opening  a  release  valve on  a  pressurized  tank.  All  the
pent-up  frustrations  leaking  out in one,  swift  whoosh,  leaving  room
for an emerging, gentler clarity.
   It didn’t matter whether my search was their  search.  What  mattered
was  that  my  search  was  leading   me  toward  something  that  I   was
starting  to recognize as important and  necessary even though  I  could
not yet see the constellation for the stars.
   I  could  not  yet see that reaching  back and  tracing  the  history  that
landed my family  where it did would be my path forward. That I would
eventually  choose to let go and leave behind some of the questions that
weren’t really mine to answer.

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   I  could not yet see  that at  the very  moment I’d be  ready  to  publish
this book, a new  pandemic would  rage  across the globe, impacting  us
all,  and  carrying  with  it  haunting  reverberations  of  the  early  AIDS
crisis. That twenty-five years  after my father’s death, his  story and  the
stories  of  countless other victims of HIV/AIDS  would hold lessons for
our present crisis and continue to resonate.
   But  that  August  night, I  couldn’t  see any  of  these  things.  What  I
could  see was the  North  Star, still  and sure at the  center of  the  sky.
A  fixed point.  A beacon. In various cultures across the world,  the  Big
Dipper  is  part of the cultural mythology. In Greek  stories,  it’s  known

as  the Great  Bear. In Ireland  and the  UK,  the  Plough.  In  Germany,
it’s  called the Great Cart, and in Italy, the Great Wagon.  However,  in
an  old  Arabic legend, the four stars that make up the asterism’s  bowl
symbolize  a coffin, and the three stars of the handle are the  mourners
who follow after the deceased.
   I  stretched  my  finger  and  followed  an  ascending  path  to the  star
representing the final mourner at the tip of the Big Dipper.
   “There,” I said softly and dropped my  hand to my side. The sound  of
my voice drifted on the air and trailed upward, expectant. Limitless.

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