The night I dreamt of home, an unfamiliar star flared on the horizon. It startled me awake. My eyes adjust to the flickering glow of my computer screen; Dr. Diallo's latest message awaits. She says global instruments are detecting "cosmic tears" near the equator--something beautiful and terrible, shedding light like a wounded firefly.
I recall the story of Yemoja, the Yoruba mother of rivers, who cried salt tears for her lost children. I wonder what the sky would weep for, gazing down on our world.
It's been months since Jabari's visit, but his words echo: aid may come from unknown places. Yet, tonight I stand alone on my dune with only desert sounds and distant lightning. Rain threatens but doesn't fall. Instead, the clouds above swirl into patterns I recognize from that first night: the same unbidden ripples appear between rain-laden clouds.
Something is happening, something vast. I weave my fingers through the air, sensing the familiar pull. The luminous sorrows--bright, painful pulses in the sky--are real and sorrowful indeed. Or perhaps I project sorrow onto them. The galaxy above looks at me with grief I can almost feel.
I dare a small act: I siphon the sorrow. That is, I gently sink my hands into the night, gathering the weight of it like water. Pain falls through my fingers, and in its place I offer a thousand gentle lullabies from my village, sounds of drums and old lullabies of comfort.
When I open my eyes, dawn's indigo and gold are painting hope on the horizon. The strange lights have faded, leaving only calm. I do not know if the cosmic weeping has ended or simply paused. But I feel curiously at peace.
Perhaps solitude and sorrow have a place even in magic. I imagine Yemoja cradling the shining sky in her arms, singing it to sleep. In that moment, I understand: power alone cannot chase away every grief. Yet, where I stand at the edge of worlds, I can at least ease some of its weight. Tonight, that was enough.