Some might find it ridiculous that I can feel downcast. Frankly, they have a point.
How can I, the singular oh-so-glorious star of our solar system, the body that keeps the stunning planets in their orbit as they celebrate their differences, the source of light and warmth that sustains life on Earth, ever feel sad about a thing? I have the greatest responsibility ever, one that I could never surrender at that.
This goes to say that I most certainly and graciously, yet regretfully, understand that if I were not to exist, Earth would hastily cease to be the lively, beautiful planet that it has always been. I know the people aren’t perfect, but I still care for them so. I am ever so amazed at my being the very entity that helps them participate in their existence day after day. I consider my service to them to be the biggest honor I could have.
Yet, most of my attention always falls on those I hurt.
It is inexplicably devastating to look at Earth and come to terms with how many people’s health is jeopardized because of nothing other than myself. I painfully catch when people notice distinct differences in their skin, worryingly telling their friends and family of their concerns. Their going to hospitals. Their learning of their conditions. Their tears falling, their loved ones’ tears falling, their treatments, their celebrations, their cures, their flat lines, their funerals—all because of me.
The planets and stars try to console me, explaining that it’s not entirely my fault. There are precautions that Earth’s people can take to prevent skin damage caused by my rays, but they have yet to make me feel better.
I try to make up for it, I truly do. I spend careful time with their plants and gardens, hopefully making their lives a bit more vibrant. I try to scheme with the moon semi-regularly to give humans solar and lunar eclipses, which I find to be a bit comical as many always assume that another one will not happen for hundreds of more years. I try to shine on them just right so that on cold days, their noses do not turn too red, and on warm days, there is just enough cool-down so that they have the chance to catch their breath.
But it’s never enough. I cannot make up for loving the people whose lives I am shattering. I cannot reach out to them with a kind hand, as though I am a close neighbor. Seeing the smallest sunburns already pains me, but the loss is enough to make me feel emptier than the vast space surrounding me.
When I see my people ache, I feel as though I am an enemy—an unlovable vessel of unkindness.
However, I tell all this sorrowful dialogue as a predecessor to a much happier, nevertheless bittersweet, story that helped my barren space feel full again. I have great difficulty keeping track of time, but this happened recently and has tugged on my mind ever since.
I sometimes like to follow random people’s lives, paying extra attention to their growing up, blooming into their adult selves, and building their lives with other people, places, and things, eventually reaching their end. The last part has never been pleasant to witness, but seeing their growth and journeys always makes me feel warmer.
One of these people’s names was Violet.
Violet was a wonderful soul. She was darling, like an album of the most vibrant photos and sweet-sounding songs. She was introverted and kind, but strong-hearted and stuck up for those who needed it most. Even on her bad days, she would wear the most selfless face to ensure those around her were not affected by bad energy.
She was smart, using everything around her as an opportunity to learn and avail herself of that knowledge however she possibly could. She had countless hobbies, including collecting cassette tapes, scrapbooking, knitting, fitness and card tricks. I could keep going for a long time. But what she loved the most was art. She was a painter—a modern-day Monet, if I say so myself. Da Vinci, even. No, Cole, for sure.
What I mean to say is that Violet was a skilled landscape painter. What she could create with her steady hands was something that, for the first time in a very, very long time, made me jealous of the human experience. I wished I could be there next to her so I could look at it from her point of view and see her brushes dip into the earthy colors as if she could produce a tree from nothing.
Violet loved, loved, loved being outside. I believe that is what truly drew me to her life in the first place. Ever since she was a young girl, she wanted to soak in my rays. She seems to have gotten it from her mother, for she rarely protested when her little girl screamed to go outside. Even when it was chilly in Sicily, where she and her mother lived, she would promptly march outside regardless of how many layers she had on. I found it exceptionally endearing and gratifying to see her bathe in the apricity, the warmth of the sun on a cold winter day.
Her mother did an impressive job of educating her daughter on how to be safe in the sun, especially when my radiation is extra strong. Every day she was in the sun, she would wear sunscreen and hats, she would reapply regularly, she would moisturize and do all the things. I was always very happy to see this, as I could not stand the thought of Violet ever getting hurt by me. She would be fine, the cautious and smart girl she was.
I had the privilege of watching Violet grow up. I watched as she started school, struggling to make friends on some days and not so much on others. I watched as she faced the first stages of puberty and yelled at her mother for the first time. I watched how she learned she never wanted to date or marry; it simply wasn’t her thing. I watched how she graduated high school and entered college, deciding to double major in forestry and art, of course. I watched as she won art competition after art competition, her landscapes blowing every judge away with her attention to each blade of grass and each inch of bark on her trees—she even gained recognition for the almost unnoticeable insects she embedded into her paintings. By the time she reached her thirties, she was following her dream of freelancing outstanding artwork for various customers of all demographics while working as an environmental scientist for a company she had greatly admired all her life. Her mother could not have been any more supportive and happier for her, and I was the same.
Everything went badly about a week after Violet turned 35. Violet’s mother got into a horrific car accident and had to be rushed to the hospital immediately. Violet only made it to the hospital moments after her mother passed away. I could barely stand witnessing it all and not being able to do a thing. Then, life being the cruel bastard it is, an observant nurse noticed some uneven-colored patches on Violet’s legs. Violet argued that they were probably just moles—she had done research and made the strong assumption that they just showed up because she spent so much time in the sun. She tried to come off confident, but her hesitation was noticeable to anyone. The nurse insisted that they do some quick tests right there in the emergency room, and Violet obliged. She was the most nervous I had ever seen her.
A few weeks passed, and I listened with a heavy, shattered conscience as Violet was diagnosed with melanoma, and it was spreading aggressively. Because they had not detected it earlier, it would become fatal sooner rather than later. This was the day that everything Violet was—every beautiful trait and passion she embraced, every bit of life she loved—fell away.
Violet had skin cancer. Because of me, she stopped going to work. Because of me, she stopped letting her friends and family into her home. Because of me, she stopped going outside. She stopped painting.
She stopped going outside, and she stopped painting.
Her garden fell apart after years of care, and her canvases gathered dust after years of being tended to. Violet lost herself, and I felt like I lost her too.
Violet was told she still had a few years, with a small chance of being cured, but this information did not do a thing to prevent her from falling into a depression that crippled her energy and vitality, fastening her to her worn-out bed for days at a time. The feeling I spoke of earlier weighs down on me like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean.
I resemble again a rotten vessel of unkindness, and I am unlovable for the heartache and affliction I inflicted upon this kind soul who left such a powerful imprint on my life—my long, full life, something that Violet would no longer have.
I became angry, and I stopped checking in on her because I could not bear the thought that I had caused this, as well as so many other cases I was not as aware of. The planets and stars again try to console me, telling me how Violet was incredibly safe and protected herself in my presence, but sometimes things turn sour because that’s just how it happens. Nothing is promised, as the infinite celestial bodies would tell me.
Years passed, and I had succeeded one tiny bit in forgetting about Violet. I tried to focus on other people, and I cared about them a lot, but I just could not forget. So, I checked in at her appointments, keeping track of when Violet might leave. Six years after her diagnosis, Violet was told she had a few weeks left. From then on, I could no longer ignore the last steps of her journey.
I could tell when it was Violet’s last day, and I think she could, too. She made no notice to the hospital, but she got out of bed in the late afternoon. That made me a little bit happy. I watched as she walked weakly to the kitchen, covered in dirty pots and pans, and made herself a coffee. As she made her brew, I worried that I would dip below her horizon before she left; it would almost feel like a betrayal. But I put that thought aside and tried my best to think of her motions in a celebratory manner.
What she did next surprised me in the most ecstatic yet heartbreaking way.
Violet walked to her designated art studio, grabbed a canvas and easel, her paint and brushes, her apron and other utensils, and made her way outside. She set up her little station on the grass in her front yard, facing my direction as I was slowly setting. I almost did not know what to do; I felt as though I was suddenly in the spotlight—funny how that works. The dust and clouds and ambiance and wind surrounded me courteously, and I understood what was happening.
I had always heard that when humans cry, they have this lump in their throats. I knew that if I were a human at that very moment, I would have a very, very big lump.
As I helped produce perhaps one of the most beautiful sunsets of my life, I gazed at the way Violet’s brushes moved as though she hadn’t taken a single break since that awful day. How she mixed her hues so carefully yet carefree, the tilt at which she held her brush to add the perfect wisp of cloud, the way the entire canvas was full of the sky and nothing else—it just took it all away. All the hurt, all the unkindness, all the unlovable nonsense I was spewing before, gone. Because at that moment, it was as though Violet was the sun instead of me.
Violet was not a modern-day Monet, da Vinci, or Cole. She was a new beginning, the first to bloom in a field of flowers.
Violet made her last stroke, gazing at her creation before looking upward at me one last time before I dipped below her horizon.
That was the last time I saw Violet. This is where the story ends, but her ending started something new in me. While I still sometimes get the mean feeling that I am unlovable, I know that the planets and stars were wrong. One promise is true, and that is that I can still love, and that is all that matters.