He’s eight years old. He’s always been fascinated with the night sky. While others chattered and laughed inside, he spent hours stargazing on the porch. For his birthday, Uncle Danny — the one person who thinks he’s interesting, not weird — gets him a telescope. This is no silly kiddie telescope, no glorified magnifying glass. It’s a 114 mm Newtonian reflector.

Chanoch’s mother gasps when he opens the gaily wrapped gift. “Danny! That must have cost a fortune! You shouldn’t have.”

“Chanoch will use it well,” Uncle Danny says quietly. Then he takes Chanoch outside and shows him how to focus, how to search for the Big Bear and Cassiopeia. When Chanoch raises the telescope to his eyes, he’s awed. Tiny specks of light become shimmering orbs. A scattering of stardust aligns itself in intricate patterns. There’s a whole world in that night sky, and the vastness touches him with wonder.

He spends all evening outdoors. And then the next and the next, until the patterns of the night sky are as familiar as the lines that crisscross his palm.

When they see Uncle Danny at the family Chanukah party, Chanoch’s mother complains. “We rarely see Chanoch as it is. Since you got him that telescope, he’s on the porch from sundown. He’d stay there until dawn if I let him.” Uncle Danny chuckles, then hands Chanoch a calendar of celestial events: eclipses and planetary movements and shooting stars. Chanoch hangs it over his desk, just above his precious telescope.

Chanoch purchases a Celestron refractor telescope at the age of 16, using two years’ worth of odd job wages. His two telescopes follow him to yeshivah, where he learns to hide them well from the rough hands of ignorant roommates. They go with him to university, where he eventually earns a PhD in physics.

He takes the reflector along on his fifth date with Ruthie — the only girl who’s had the patience to date him this long. He drives to a park on the outskirts of the city, far from the fluorescent clutter of humanity. He shows her how to focus, points out Aquarius and Pegasus, which glow in the autumn sky. She dutifully looks into the lens and exclaims over a shooting star they’re lucky enough to catch. Then she asks him about Uncle Danny. She doesn’t share his wonder, he quickly realizes, but she doesn’t mock it either.

They’re married five months later, and between clumsily trying to understand the woman who is now his wife, and putting in extra hours at the lab so they can afford a down payment on a house, there’s little time for the stars.

But Chanoch still has a calendar of celestial events, and on the nights when the rings of Saturn are visible or an eclipse is expected, he takes out his newest telescope — a Schmidt-Cassegrain catadioptric telescope his parents treated him to when he got his doctorate. He gazes upward and loses himself in the pathways of the sky, stopping only when Ruthie comes looking for him.

Shimon is just five when Chanoch first crouches down and holds the telescope to his eye. Shimon’s little face lights up as the stars come into focus and Chanoch feels the same stirring of love laced with awe he felt when he gazed at newborn Shimon. This is his son; flesh of his flesh, a piece of his very being. A year later, he buys Shimon a telescope of his very own.

During the day Shimon is an active, social being — busy with ballgames, and birthday parties, and the tree house he built with his best friend, things Chanoch can’t remember ever having been a part of his own life. But when the night falls and the stars emerge, he is Chanoch’s son.

They sit on the porch and gaze into their telescopes. During the summer, when Ruthie won’t cluck about a late bedtime, Chanoch takes his son just past the city limit, and they set up their equipment on a hill. Chanoch points out different stars, allows his son to look into his telescope so he can glimpse the distant planets. Chanoch gives Shimon a copy of the calendar he uses, and Shimon always reminds Chanoch when an eclipse is expected.

It’s been nine months since the diagnosis. Nine months since Chanoch has touched his telescope. As he looks heavenward, he realizes that it’s the first time in nearly three decades that he’s missed the Perseid meteor showers.

He lets himself fall back onto the lawn, trying not to think about grass stains on his jacket. He stares at the sky, at the swirling patterns that once made perfect sense, but which now blur before his eyes. He stays there until he hears Ruthie’s car at the end of their long driveway. Then he leaps up, grabs his briefcase, and rushes into the dark house.

According to the most recent clinical trials, the new medication is entirely successful in 21.3 percent of cases, partially successful in 42.3 percent of cases, and had no measurable impact in the remaining 36.4 percent of cases. Shimon is in the 36.4 percent.

Chanoch is determined to speak with the two Dutch hematologists who created the new drug. He tries to track them down through the editor of the journal, reaches out to the university at which they teach, searches for them online, leaves multiple messages on the phone number he finds listed for the address given as the home of the senior researcher back in 2010.

After days of effort and dozens of e-mails, Chanoch reaches Professor Meijer early one morning, while Ruthie is still asleep. Chanoch tells him about Shimon, about the various regimens tried, about their use of the new drug and its failure. The voice on the other end of the line sounds flat. “I am sorry to hear about the lack of success with your son,” the doctor says. “But I am sure your attending physician told you that no medication is always effective. How would you want me to help you?”

Chanoch takes a deep breath, holds on to the edge of the desk in his study. “I just thought it would be helpful to speak with you. I’d like to know what you’d recommend at this point. Should we be adjusting the dosage? Is there anything else that could help boost its effectiveness?”

“Whatever I’ve discovered, I’ve written about, sir. We’re familiar with cases like your son’s and we’re working on a combination drug which would help people with low levels of sulfation enzymes better absorb the medication. We’re also working to create sister medications. But research takes months, years. I don’t believe we’ll have an answer for your son before 2017. And it doesn’t sound like your son will hold out that long.”

Chanoch grips the table so tightly his knuckles buckle. He manages a garbled “Thank you” and lets the phone fall to the floor.

He sits immobile for a long time. Then he picks up the phone again. His next call is to Jerusalem. Moish Glazer is an old classmate whose family made aliyah when Moish was in fifth grade. He’s also one of the only friends Chanoch is still in touch with.

“Chanoch Felder! It’s so good to hear your voice!” Moish was always jovial, the decades haven’t changed him. “How are you?”

“Been better,” Chanoch says quietly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my son Shimon…” Chanoch stops, swallows hard, then tries again. “He was diagnosed with a rare form of childhood leukemia. He’s been in treatment for 11 months now. The doctors are getting pessimistic.”

“Oh, gosh, I had no idea. That must be really rough.”

Chanoch can feel the sympathy, and it fills him with a mixture of gratitude and revulsion. “Yes, it’s pretty awful. Which is why I’m calling. I’ve donated goodness knows how much to so many organizations so they should daven for Shimon. But we need more. Do you think you could go to Bnei Brak? Maybe get a personal brachah from Rav Chaim?”

“Of course. For sure. I teach most of the week, but I’m off on Wednesday afternoon. I’ll go then. And I’ll get all the boys in my class — no, all the boys in the cheder — to daven. What’s Shimon’s full name?”

“Shimon ben Rus Malka.”

“You know what they say about the power of the tefillos of tinokos shel beis rabban. We’re going to harness that power.” Moish sounds determined, even upbeat. Chanoch wishes he could siphon off some of the other man’s confidence, make it his own.

Two weeks later, Tali is finally home from camp. It’s only once she’s in the playroom, playing elaborate games with Rollaboo and Ballaby, her two favorite dolls, when she’s in the yard, flying high on the swing Chanoch had tied to the old oak years before, when she’s in the kitchen asking for just one more cookie, that Chanoch realizes how much he’s missed his little girl.

He tries to come home early so he can play Candyland with Tali before supper. They eat as a family, Chanoch, Ruthie, and Tali. But the empty chair at the small table fills the kitchen more than the three of them can.

One night, Chanoch is delayed by a complicated project with a tight deadline. By the time he comes home, Tali is asleep. Ruthie pulls a reheated casserole out of the oven, serves out two portions, sits down next to him.

Chanoch is taking his first bite when Ruthie leans forward intently.

“Dr. Harding is thinking of releasing Shimon next week,” she says. “He says there’s nothing more they can do for him, so at this point, he belongs in a hospice, not in the hospital.”

“Dr. Harding isn’t G-d,” Chanoch responds, stating the tired mantra that’s pulled him through the past year. “He has no idea what the future holds.”

“He’s not G-d,” Ruthie says, an edge of anger in her voice. “But he is a doctor and he’s appraising us of Shimon’s condition.”

Chanoch puts the forkful of food in his mouth and chews slowly. He knows what he should say, he knows that he should remind his wife of the power of tefillah and tell her that miracles can happen to any Jew at any time.

But he is so very weary.

“Good casserole,” he says instead. “Is it from the Shapiros?”

Ruthie pushes her plate away, stands up abruptly. Two minutes later he hears her in the laundry room, setting up the ironing board. She’s always loved ironing, attacking every crease until the fabric is a smooth, flowing expanse.

Chanoch finishes the casserole, washes the dishes, dries them and puts them away. He flips on the computer, logs into his bank account to check the balance and to see if the insurance company has reimbursed the astronomic cost of the new medication. Without the income from Ruthie’s home business, and with the medical expenses that cascade upon them month after month, the numbers are getting increasingly dismal.

Then he goes to look for Ruthie. She’s still in the laundry room, leaning against the wall, tears streaming from her closed eyes. The iron has burnt a large hole in his best Shabbos shirt. Chanoch reaches down, pulls out the plug, and leaves the iron to cool.

Ruthie opens her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” she hisses. “How can you care so little?”

The accusation slams into his chest, and he stumbles backward. Of course I care! I’m doing everything, everything I can. He looks at Ruthie, at the pain and anger pulling her face into a grotesque mask. “You’re not being fair.”

“Fair?! Fair! This isn’t about fair. This is about being there for me, for Shimon, for our family.”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“If that isn’t obvious to you,” Ruthie replies scathingly, “then we really have a problem.”

He’s fallen into a new routine. He gets to work very early, before 7:30. This allows him to leave at 3:30. Then he drives the half hour to the hospice and slips into Shimon’s room. Ruthie leaves, and is able to be home just in time to get Tali off the school bus.

Most days Shimon sleeps, in a morphine-induced haze. “We do our best to ensure our patients’ final days are pain-free,” Linda Mallory, the director with the nasal voice, had told them on the very first day. “We give the highest possible doses of pain reliever.” Then, seeing Chanoch’s alarm, she quickly added, “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Felder. Everything is done under the close supervision of our expert teams of doctors.”

Chanoch had a sudden wild urge to lift the bud vase off the director’s desk and throw it clear across the room. Instead, he excused himself, and left Ruthie to “finalize the family’s preferences for the physical, emotional, and psychosocial care of their terminally ill son.”

Today, Chanoch has to meet with Ms. Mallory again. Ruthie wants Shimon home for Succos. Chanoch thinks this is ludicrous, but Moish, whom Chanoch finds himself calling every few days, tells him to give it a shot. “Worst comes to worst, they’ll tell you no way,” he had said late last night. “But then the ‘no’ will be coming from them. Don’t be the one to shatter your wife’s dreams.”

So now Chanoch is in the office again. Today the bud vase is filled with dahlias. Ms. Mallory looks at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Our holiday is coming up,” he begins.

“Really? I thought the High Holidays were over yesterday,” she says.

“They were,” he responds, willing himself to stay polite. “This is a different holiday. Succos — I mean, Sukkot… well, some call it the Feast of Tabernacles.”

“I see,” she says, even though it’s clear she doesn’t.

“We’d like Shimon home for the holidays.”

“Mr. Felder, I can understand the desire,” she says softly, “but I don’t know if you realize all that entails. You son’s body is extremely weak, and he needs constant monitoring and care.”

Chanoch is ready to nod and escape, but the image of Ruthie sobbing in the laundry room rises up in his mind. And his voice becomes hard and firm. “I’ve been sitting by his bedside for the past year. I believe I know what my request entails. Yes, our son is very weak. But there’s not that much he needs in the way of medical intervention at the moment. My wife and I are familiar with all the meds Shimon is taking. I’m sure your expert staff can tell us exactly what needs to be done when. And we have a neighbor who is a nurse. She’s agreed to come by every two hours to check Shimon’s vitals and ensure he’s not in distress. Shimon is our son, and we want him at home with his family for the holiday.”

Ms. Mallory is silent for a long moment. “I see you’ve thought this through,” she finally says. “I’m concerned, and I don’t advise this, but if this is what you want, we’ll make it feasible.”

It takes more discussion to clarify that no, the holiday isn’t a three-hour long meal but a nine-day festival. The director puts her foot down. More discussion and negotiation. Finally, she agrees that Shimon can come home for the first two days of the holiday, as long as he’s returned immediately afterward.

Chanoch decides to tell Ruthie in person, rather than over the phone. The smile that lights up her face is his reward. Then he rushes down to the basement to bring up the succah boards.

It will be dark in an hour; he works quickly. He can’t smooth the ground this year, and he doesn’t even bother taking out his level to ensure that all the boards are lined up properly. Tali hands him the hammer and screws, and he follows the numbers scrawled on the boards from previous, calmer years, to hastily construct the walls. Then he attaches a grid of slim wooden beams across the roof to support the sechach. Chanoch doesn’t use those mass-produced bamboo mats that grace his neighbors’ succahs. He carefully trims the old oak, and piles the leafy braches upon the succah. In his succah, Shimon will see the stars.

On Erev Yom Tov, Chanoch drives slowly home from the hospice. Shimon is strapped into the back seat, dozing. They reach the house and Chanoch opens the back door. He reaches down and lifts his son out of the car, cradling him as though he’s an infant. He’s shocked at the way Shimon’s body seems to float.

Chanoch carries Shimon into the house, where Ruthie is waiting at the door. The kitchen is filled with the aroma of freshly cooked food, a scent Shimon hasn’t encountered for months.

“Welcome home, Shimon,” Ruthie says. “Ready for a delicious lunch?”

Chanoch looks at her incredulously; their son can’t eat more than a few bites of applesauce. But he sees the desperation in her eyes and says nothing.

Shimon shakes his head as he returns her smile with a wan grin that looks more like a grimace. “Want to lie down first, Ma. I’m… a little tired.”
Chanoch carries Shimon up to his room. He lays him down and tucks him in. Shimon is asleep moments later. Chanoch watches the rise and

fall of his chest for a while. Then he quietly slips out.
A few hours later, Shimon is lying is on the couch when Chanoch heads for the basement to bring up a folding bed. He calls for his father.

“Please… bring up both beds,” he whispers. “I want… to sleep in the succah.”

Chanoch shakes his head. Shimon’s immune system is so compromised; how can he sleep outdoors in October? “This isn’t a good idea.”

Shimon merely points to himself. “What else could happen?” he says with a sardonic grin.

So Chanoch brings up both beds and leaves them near the back door. Ruthie sees the second bed and her eyebrows shoot up. Chanoch quietly reassures her.

Shimon joins them at the Yom Tov table in the recliner Chanoch has brought out for him, sitting beside Tali, who keeps staring at her older brother in alarm. He manages two miniscule bites of the challah Ruthie made and half a bowl of the chicken soup the Newmans sent before pain and fatigue twist his features.

“Do you want to go inside?” Chanoch asks. Shimon shakes his head. Chanoch quickly pulls on the linen, helps his son into bed. Shimon is soon asleep.

Three hours later, the lights in the succah have switched off. Chanoch lies down gingerly beside his son and gazes upward. Through the sparse foliage, he can make out glints of silver on an ebony sky.

He startles when he hears Shimon’s voice. “Ssssttars… the sttars,” he says.

“The stars?” Chanoch asks. “You see the stars?”

Shimon nods. “Can’t see them… in the hospice.” A long pause. “…meteor shower this year?”

Shimon’s voice is so faint that Chanoch has to strain to hear each word.

“I didn’t see it. Haven’t touched my telescope since… it’s been a while.”

They lay in silence. “I’ve missed it,” Chanoch finally says. “I’ve missed you. I loved going to the park with you. You always found the Sagittarius before I had even finished setting up my telescope.”

Chanoch can see Shimon smile even in the dark.

“The stars, they’re… far away,” Shimon says, “but they seem… so close. And the light… the light is there even after a star burns out.”
Chanoch listens. Shimon is silent for a few minutes, and then starts speaking again. “I wonder… do you think our neshamos are like that? Maybe their light can still shine… even when they’re far away.”

Something is pressing hard, hard, hard on Chanoch’s chest. He can’t talk. He can’t breathe. He swallows twice, then turns to his son. “Yes, I’m sure it’s like that. We’ll see the light for a long time.” He takes a big gulp of air, then forces himself to keep going. “But a neshamah is different than a star. It never dies out. It goes right near Hashem — and there it’s a sun.”

Shimon is silent for so long Chanoch thinks he’s fallen asleep. But then he hears Shimon straining to speak. Chanoch leans close.

“That… sounds good,” Shimon whispers.

Chanoch drives Shimon back to the hospice right after havdalah. Ms. Mallory is by the front desk, casting disapproving glances at him. He ignores her, carries Shimon back to his room, settles him in the far-too-large hospital bed.

When he gets back home, he finds Tali asleep, the succah dark, and Ruthie on the couch in the den surrounded by photo albums.

“Come with me,” he says, “let’s go out to the succah.” Ruthie looks wary, but she follows him outside. They sit in the dark — Chanoch wants only the illumination of night sky. He looks upward, then tries to tell her of the conversation he had with their son on the first night of Succos.

But he can’t get the words out. Instead, he begins to weep. Ruthie watches him, wide eyed.

He reaches for a tissue, tries to brush away the tears, but they seem to have no end. He puts his head down on the folding table and weeps out

12 years of love, 12 months of pain. Ruthie sits beside him.

Finally, it’s over. The tears recede, leaving a sense of tranquility in their place. Slowly, he tells Ruthie about his conversation with Shimon. Now, she begins to cry. But her tears no longer scare him. He waits until they, too, are spent. Then they tip their heads upward, and together, they gaze at the stars.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Pesach 5781)