The Road Ends at Polaris

The road outside our house had always been noisy.

Motorcabs came and went throughout the day, their engines mixing with barking dogs and the distant laughter of children. At night, their headlights would sweep across our windows before disappearing around the corner.

I had grown used to one particular sound: an engine slowing down, a familiar headlight passing through our window, and a motorcab stopping by our gate. I never had to look at the clock to know he was coming home.

But that evening, the road was silent.

I sat beside the window and listened, telling myself it was only one night. Maybe he was late. Maybe the road was busy. The next evening, I waited again. Still nothing. Then another evening came, and another, until I stopped counting. My ears had not learned what my heart already knew.

I missed the footsteps that followed the engine. I missed the door opening, the faint smell of gasoline and rain, and his quiet voice asking if we had eaten. Papa was never a man who said, “I love you.” I used to wonder why. But maybe he had been saying it in other ways, through the heat of the sun he drove through, the rain he came home from, and the tired hands that worked for us. I had mistaken those ordinary, daily moments for something that would last forever.

Some absences arrive quietly. You notice them only when you realize you have been waiting for a sound that will never return.

One night, after the rain had stopped, I stepped outside. The road was wet, reflecting the yellow streetlights like broken pieces of gold. Every approaching engine made my heart rise, only to fall again when the headlights passed.

Not him. Again.

I stopped looking at the street and tilted my head toward the sky. The clouds had cleared, revealing hundreds of stars. Among them, one caught my attention. It wasn’t the brightest, but somehow, it felt like the one that stayed.

Polaris. The North Star.

I remembered that Polaris was the star people looked to when they had lost their way. Looking at it, I remembered Papa sitting outside after a long day, his tired hands resting in his lap, giving me that small smile he always had.

“Papa,” I whispered into the cool air.

The road gave no answer, and neither did the night. But Polaris remained steady in the quiet dark.

Papa may no longer turn down our street or walk through our gate. I looked at Polaris again and thought about how he always seemed to know the way home. Maybe some things do not disappear when they are gone. Maybe they simply become something we learn to look for.

I stopped waiting for the motorcab to come home. I looked up instead.

I wasn’t looking for him to return anymore. I was only learning where to look when I missed him.

Because the road does not end in darkness.

The road ends at Polaris.