You are becoming the stargazer..."

Light from Light became Darkness.

My God died. He perished along with thousands of innocents, with those whose dead eyes look at me every night and whose cold lips whisper endless words of complaint. And when I die, he will die with me. For the second time.

I closed the diary and tossed it into my desk drawer.

Whoever said paper is patient was right. The diary always sits in my desk; at any moment I can pull it out and open it, write down what hurts me. My best friend for almost two months.

Ever since Sylwia died.

I remember it was the middle of summer, the sun was shining. A summer Saturday, like many others behind me and ahead of me. I sat in front of the television and stared blankly at the clock, whose hands, perhaps out of spite, seemed to move more slowly than usual. Sylwia was supposed to arrive around one in the afternoon; we wanted to wander around the shops a bit; I was planning to buy something with the money I'd received for my name day.

It was already half past one, and Sylwia still hadn't shown up. I wasn't worried, because why should I be? Something had obviously come up; she was late many times.

Around two-twenty, the phone rang. I went to answer it, thinking it was Sylwia calling to apologize for being late or to cancel the meeting.

"Sylwia had an accident. She's in the hospital in very serious condition. It's unknown if she'll survive."

All I remember from that afternoon and evening was my mother's surprise and horror when she found me huddled in the living room by the table where the telephone stood. And that the receiver lay next to me, and I wanted to throw it into the phone cradle. I missed.

Tears blurred my eyes.

~*~

Some moments in life remain with us forever.

When I entered the house that evening, it was strangely quiet. Too quiet. Kaśka hated silence, just as she hated inactivity – there was always music, dancing, singing, movement, activity around her.

I peeked into her room. Sure, the TV was on, but someone had muted the volume. Kasia was gone, a hairbrush and an open book were scattered on the couch.

My daughter was in the living room. Hounded, curled up, semi-conscious.

I tugged at her arm, asked what was wrong, but she didn't answer, just looked at me with such a look that I immediately picked her up from the floor and led her to bed.

Her empty, deep eyes haunted my dreams for a long time.

~*~

I didn't visit Sylwia in the hospital; I wasn't there when

she said goodbye to the world, when her barely seventeen-year-old life was seeping out of her.

When Sylwia's mother called me with the news that the doctors had described my friend's condition as critical and that it was high time to go to the hospital if I wanted to see her alive one last time, I locked myself in the bathroom and spent two hours there without shedding a single tear.

And when they told me it was over, that the funeral would be in two days, I hated them all – Sylwia's parents for crying when I couldn't, my mother for her sympathetic looks, the doctors for being unable to deal with my friend's death.

I didn't go to the funeral.

Since that evening when I learned about the accident, I haven't cried once. I couldn't, though now I think it would have helped me.

Tears are a human treasure.

~*~

I wanted to help her, I really did. I knew something like that must hurt; Kaśka would have to be made of stone not to feel this whole thing deeply.

But what could I do? I couldn't talk to her; we were growing increasingly distant. Someone advised me to see a psychologist. I tried, but Kasia, at the sound of the word "psychologist," would lock herself in her room and sit for hours, staring at the wall.

I once saw her standing in front of the mirror. I heard her call herself a worthless idiot. I watched her avert her gaze, trying to avoid looking at her reflection.

I thought about approaching her, even reaching out and taking a step.

She turned her back on me and slammed the door to her room. She had created an impenetrable barrier between us.

I hate feeling helpless.

~*~

I sat on my bed and pretended to read. I tried to use the book to isolate myself from reality and from my mother, whose eyes I constantly saw silent reproach. I refused to be persuaded to see a psychologist; I didn't want anyone to make me look crazy.

I existed as normally as possible, or at least I tried to make it seem that way. I went to school, didn't skulk around, didn't do drugs or steal, didn't skip school, and was a decent student. Everything was as it had been before, except for two things:

I didn't have Sylwia and God.

I missed the former much more; I'd grown accustomed to her presence and the fact that I could always count on her. Faith, however, had long been just an empty phrase for me; I'd given up

going to church about three or four years ago; I didn't want to force myself to do something that held no value to me.

I'd never liked posturing, and that's why—just like Rachel in Wyspiański's "The Wedding" didn't write poetry because she disliked shoddy work—I didn't go to Mass because I didn't want to pretend to be someone I wasn't.

Suddenly, something shone directly into my eyes. I looked around, but there was no light nearby. What's more, the same order and silence reigned everywhere as before.

Another beam of light, but this time longer and seemingly more intense. And a voice. Quiet, yet melodic, resonant, as if delicate glass spheres were vibrating within it, colliding with each other to create a beautiful, delicate sound.

"Hello," a pale, indistinct silhouette glowed by the window. Facial features were indistinguishable, just as it was difficult to tell whether the visitor was a man or a woman.

"Who are you?" I wasn't afraid, though I knew I should be. I couldn't be afraid; this person inspired trust.

"They call me many things." The newcomer floated gently to the bed.

I involuntarily recoiled.

"Are you...

" "Angel. That's what they call me.

" "Angel? Then where are your wings and golden halo?" I sneered.

"They're up there," he replied calmly. "And don't mock me, please. You'd better get dressed and come."

I looked at him like he was a psychopath. It was late evening, late September, it was pitch black outside, a terrible wind was blowing, and a disgusting drizzle was drizzling. I wanted to scream in this person's face that angels didn't exist, that everything around me was excessively real and mundane, that my atheist attitude didn't allow me to wander around in the middle of the night accompanied by a blurry ball of light that was probably just a figment of my imagination anyway.

I didn't.

I threw on a windbreaker, tied my shoelaces, and with my head down, quickly walked out the kitchen door.

~*~

I saw him leaving.

I wanted to call out to her to dress warmer, to put on her hood, to grab an umbrella. I wanted to stop her, hug her, and finally tear down this sick wall of cold indifference that was growing between us day by

day.

And yet I stood there, watching her walk forward, slim and delicate, seemingly fragile, yet so strong within.

She walked quickly and without hesitation, along a path she had known for years, one she had walked as a child, one where she had taken her first steps.

I thought that either Kaśka was close to choosing her path, or the path was stubbornly pursuing her, besieging her on all sides and forcing her to make a choice.

Something ends, something begins.

~*~

After about ten minutes, we stood on the lake's shore, on a large rock overlooking the entire area.

"Tell me, what is God to you?" he asked, drawing my attention away from the foaming water.

"Nothing. He doesn't exist. You don't exist either; you're just my imagination.

" "Fine. But for a moment, accept the hypothesis that we do exist. Both I and God. Will you try?"

I nodded.

"See that star over there?" He pointed to a bright speck among the puffy, dense clouds. "That's God.

" "Far away. Cold and indifferent," I blurted out. "Great and terrible. He leaves us to our own devices. He's somewhere, but you can only see Him if you look closely, and even then, you won't get anything out of seeing Him. "

He nodded gravely, then bent down and touched a small pebble that lay near my shoe.

"That's God too," he said.

I looked at him sideways. I'd never wondered if angels had emotions, but at least my companion's face showed no signs of any.

"No, that's a pebble," I denied.

"And when we were talking about the star, you didn't object. Does it hurt you so much that I'm comparing God to a stone?"

I didn't answer.

"He's close, and even though we sometimes ignore him, he's always with us." You can reject him; he won't force you to do anything; he'll let you make your own decision and choose your own path in life. You can forget about his existence, just like you can forget about a pebble. After all, it wouldn't be so hard to tell yourself, "There are no such things as pebbles; someone just

invented them," would it? But that would be lying to yourself, because as soon as you leave the house, you'll see hundreds of them. Do you enjoy lying to yourself?

I remained silent. And for the first time in many, many days, I cried.

~*~

"Look," my companion pointed to a bright window on the ground floor of a multi-story building. Curiously, I peered inside and for a moment observed a young woman breastfeeding a tiny child.

"Pretty," I said, stepping away from the windowsill because the woman had risen from her armchair and I was afraid she might see me.

"God is in this tiny child too," he said. "Now look here."

He led me a few steps down the alley and pointed to an old, thin man sitting against the wall, trying to cover himself with the remains of his rags.

"Give him bread." A large piece of bread appeared out of nowhere in my companion's hand.

It was not without a certain revulsion that I approached the beggar, trying not to turn my head and somehow enduring the unpleasant smell of illness and old age.

I handed the man a slice of bread.

In the dark, rainy alley, amidst the filth, musty tenements, garbage, and dust, the sun suddenly shone. The beggar smiled toothlessly, and his eyes shone with happiness and love for the entire world.

I was incapable of love; I had everything, I acted as if I deserved it. And yet I didn't. The man had a much greater right to happiness, who, in gratitude for mercy, gave everything he possessed—the light of his soul.

"Whatever you did to one of my least brothers, you did to me..." the angel whispered, quoting the words that had been echoing in my head all these years of lying to myself.

~*~

The small hand on my watch was approaching twelve as my companion and I walked home. Almost at the door, I stopped and asked the question that had been stuck in my throat since the beginning of my "acquaintance" with the angel.

"Why did Sylvia die? Why her? There are so many people who deserved death more than she..."

My companion looked me in the eye for the first time that night. The intensity of his gaze was so strong that it made me dizzy.

"Judge not, and you will not be judged. Remember that death is not a punishment, but a kind of reward."

I bowed my head and swallowed the tears that stubbornly blocked my ability to speak.

"But why does it have to hurt so much? Why can't life consist only of good times?"

"God promises us a safe landing, but not an uneventful flight," he whispered. "Goodbye."

Before I knew it, I was standing alone in front of the kitchen door.

Above my head, high in the sky, a star shone – a symbol of my God and my Truth.

~*~

I saw her coming back. When she left, she had kept her head bowed; now she held it high. At the door, she stopped for a moment and

looked up at the sky.

"She's made her decision," I thought. "The road has caught up with her; now the arduous journey along her chosen route will begin."

The door slammed. Kaśka entered the kitchen, slowly, very slowly, with a proud chin raised and a strange brightness in her eyes.

"We need to talk, Mom," she said.

Simply. Because it was simple. This wall we'd built between us had, in fact, very weak foundations.

And yet, I became concerned. I hadn't spoken to Kaśka in so long that any suggestion of discussion now seemed inappropriate.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, gazing intently into her eyes, which until then I had only seen veiled in a haze of indifference.

My daughter bravely endured her mother's searching gaze. Her wariness and coldness vanished. She smiled, and my heart wept. With happiness.

"No, Mom. Nothing happened," she said. "I simply became stargazing."