This is an essay that I wrote about a month ago, and I decided to share it with you. I hope you like it.
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When I was five, my mother started to take me out at night, to look at the stars. Her reason for doing so was to cure my fear of the dark, which caused me to run to her room crying.

“You’ve got to get over your fear,” said my father. “Otherwise you’ll never survive in this world.”

Mother disagreed with him, saying that if you weren’t scared of anything you weren’t human – but she brought me out nonetheless.

“Open your eyes,” she said the first night. “Covering your eyes won’t do you any good.”

Hesitantly, I opened my eyes, and looked up. Above me were thousands of white flecks in the sky, illuminating what would’ve been completely black.

“See the stars darling?” my mother asked. “You wouldn’t be able to see those during the day.”

I asked her why not, and she said that stars couldn’t shine without darkness.

We spent the rest of the night searching for shooting stars, and mother pointed out all the visible constellations. Soon, I was no longer afraid of the dark.

Years passed, and the weekly stargazing nights continued with mother. Those weekly trips were what kept me grounded for the next eleven years; through school, puberty, and boyfriends. Stargazing with mother was one of the only constants in my life.

Then she got sick.

Mother was diagnosed with a rare case of Alzheimer’s Disease, one that took place earlier in life than expected, around the patient’s fifties.

Soon, she began to forget things. First, it was small things, such as dinner parties and asking questions. Then, it started to get worse. She began forgetting memories, relatives, and friends. We all tried to help her remember, but she couldn’t.

I was twenty was mother couldn’t recognise me anymore. It’s easy to say that I was heartbroken, but no, it was so much worse. I was furious when mother forgot about me, because that meant that she forgot everything…including the stargazing trips. I still tried to help her remember, and visited her every two days. But no, she wouldn’t remember.

I was twenty-five when I got the call at two in the morning, telling me that my mother was dead. They said that it was due to pneumonia, as it had developed along with the Alzheimer’s.

People expected me to cry at her funeral, but I couldn’t. I was overwhelmed with the grief of having lost my mother, but then relieved that I wouldn’t have to set myself up for disappointment three to four times a week. But I was still mad that she had died not remembering who I was, her own daughter.

Three days after the funeral, I drove out to the beach, where mother and I used to watch the stars. I laid a blanket down, to protect my clothes from the soft sand. I looked up. The stars were no longer as visible as they were two decades prior, due to the urbanization of what used to be a small town. There were a few stars scattered here and there, but it would be difficult to spot all the constellations that were once visible.

I tried to think of a time when I came here, feeling a similar grief. My mind went to the day my grandfather died, and mother brought my seven-year-old self here to calm me down.

“Why did Grandpa have to die Momma?” I asked her through my tears. “Why did he? I prayed every night, just like you told me to.”

            “Darling, Grandpa was sick. He was going to die one of these days. He was unhappy here though. Aren’t you happy that he’s not suffering anymore?”

            I nodded my head in agreement, and then looked back up at the stars. “Why do they shine so bright Momma? It’s too sad tonight to shine that bright.”

            Mother turned her head to look up at the stars, a pensive look on her face.

            “Maybe they’re not stars,” she said. “But rather the souls of our lost ones, shining their love down on us from windows in heaven, to let us know that they’re happy.”

            My mind snapped back to reality, and I was again looking at the night sky. There, high above me, was a new star, shining brighter than all the others.

“Hi mom,”