The Star Dance

They say that a hero never dies. That when his body wastes away, he is reborn in the stars. I never believed that until now.

As I sit here, watching the sky at the midnight hour, I see a thousand things at once. The stars seem to come alive, moving across the sky in a big dance. I can see thousands of people for who they are, alive in the skies. I watch as each star moves with its own rhythm. The stars dance.

I watch as Hercules, son of the Greek god Zeus, battles his way across the sky, a dance of swords and feet. He battles demons and monsters, fighting to regain the honor he lost so tragically. He moves like a hot knife through butter, smooth and graceful. He doesn't stop as he moves through the night, fast as lightning.

I listen as Cinderella dances to the music of the ball, gliding and flowing amid the stars. Her dance is one of grace and beauty, of happiness and love. I see her beautiful eyes stare over at her prince as she dances with some poor fellow who has already fallen in love with her.

I smile when the legendary Puss in Boots tricks his way through the stars, telling a lie here, smiling misleadingly there, as he acquires new wealth for his master. The miller's son himself stands back holding the cat's sack. I laugh at the incredulous expression on his face.

My chest swells with pride for the great King Arthur, who made peace in his country. They said he would appear again.

I feel the anger of Thor, god of thunder searches the night for his missing hammer. Though the night is warm, I feel a shiver travel through me.

A giggle escapes me as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes puzzles his way through the galaxy. He picks up a star here, a planet there, searching for clues to whatever mystery he is working on now. The faithful Dr. Watson is nearby, watching with interest as Holmes does what he does best.

I gaze up in awe as the father that died before I was born smiles down at me from the heavens, in pride and happiness. He died fighting a fire.

I cry as my mother appears, holding my father. She died but a month before, killed by a drunk driver. She smiles and waves, happy to just see me again.

I hold my arms up to the sky, willing them to come down to me. The smile, but I can see the sorrow in their eyes as they start to cry. Their tears fall down on me like the rain. My own join theirs.

Soon—all too soon for me—the picture fades as the sun's first rays strike the sky. All the wonderful heroes in my life had gone.

But a hero never dies. They will come again.