God Stars Cherie Nelson (bio) In one of my first memories, I am lying in my bed in the room adjacent to my parents'. I am waiting for sleep to happen to me, listening to the sound of my mother vacuuming the landing outside my room, shifting my body, propping it up on one side, and then the other, on my stomach, then my back, counting the glow in the dark stars tacked to the popcorn ceiling. For minutes, hours—who could know?—I have watched them leak their brilliant green-yellow light until they diminish to merely plastic, lightless shapes, like the fireflies we would catch and accidentally smash, watching their life flicker less and less until black. In an instant, my eyes open wider, my heart pounds, as my mind begins to spin: I am alive here and did not have to be, I am alive and did not have to be, so why am I here and alive? And I am crying with the weight of this, cannot breathe. I grab two fistfuls of the flannel fitted sheet below me, trying to feel the weight of my body keeping me on the bed. I yell out for my mom, over and over again, but my voice does not make its way past the roar of the vacuum. I close my eyes, hope this thought does not make me float away. At fourteen I experience a similar feeling, lying in the side yard of my house with one of my best childhood neighbor friends. It is November and we can see our breath but not the moon, and the stars are shouting white light. It is clear enough to see the familiar dipper and milky dust, and we take turns guessing which dot is the North Star, always less bright than I imagine it will be. I begin to think about my body lying in the grass on this rock floating in an inky black, and I realize I can't see how much of the dark we are swimming in, so much of the earth is in my line of vision. And the infinite nature of the blackness, the riskiness of being on a vehicle that moves through it, not being able to see any of this fully, makes the yard [End Page 127] spin. I grab two fistfuls of dried and yellowed November grass just to be sure I won't be flung away. ________ Lacy was older than me and had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard live. In the mornings before church and on Wednesday nights when our parents were practicing music for the Sunday service, her two younger sisters and I would hide in one of the upstairs classrooms, the one with the large silver boombox, and run around on the tightly looped commercial carpet in our socks. We'd listen to a demo that Lacy had made and given to her younger sisters, covers of country songs I hadn't ever heard before. Whose bed have your boots been under?, she would ask, her raspy voice filling up the space to the point that I cannot remember any images in the memory, except the carpet and the boombox, her voice blanketed over everything. At thirteen, I hadn't put together what someone's boots under another person's bed meant. Lacy sang very different songs in church. She sang in the middle of services while my father and other balding men would pass around offering plates. Wooden saucers with high ridges, a circle of red velvet in the base. As the plates passed, people looked up at her, fixated. I would forget that we were in church, instead watching my Christian pop icon as her eyes closed at the end of cadences, then opened into some parishioner's when she traveled to another verse. She held the microphone delicately, her fingers nearly outstretched, gripping it only slightly between their tips in a way that made me ever-feel like it might fall. So perfect and precarious. I could only see her as beautiful and nineteen and fixed in light. ________ On a napkin in the dorm dining hall, my friend...