Last quarter moon,
Dad still hanging on.
Forty-two days longer than they said he would.
Can he make it longer still?
To graduation?
Beyond?
Open my Astro textbook,
search for an answer,
stare at photo after photo of nebulas.
They may only be gas shells
produced by dying stars—
a star’s last wish—
but they look like
fireworks,
red, purple clouds
of hope—
a yes
suspended
in a wide-open
sky.