The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot

by Marianne Cronin

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

“Do you know,” she said slowly, “that the stars that we see the clearest are already dead?” “Well, that’s depressing.” I took my hand from hers. “No,” she said gently, linking her arm through mine, “it’s not depressing, it’s beautiful. They’ve been gone for who knows how long, but we can still see them. They live on.” They live on.