Now, no-one will ever know the truth about Dawn Dee. No-one will ever look up in the sky and say “I was guided by Dawn Dee, and found my way home in the dead of winter. God bless you, Dawn Dee.” It is unlikely that some astronomer will one day say, “We were about to give up hope entirely on the search for intelligent life, until we heard that faint, unmistakable signal from Dawn Dee.” It is MUCH more unlikely that some jedi master will say “I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if all the lives on the fourth planet of Dawn Dee were snuffed out in an instant.”
In fact, that last one was only going to happen in some extremely rarified circumstances, but now, it’s TOTALLY impossible, which might come as a relief, if you happen to be orbitting Dawn Dee. But if you were, you’d never know it, because your star was thrown away.
There is something here that seems unimaginably sad. Someone’s lover seeing this on the pile of junk left behind after a nightmare of a breakup, hoping not to hear the fragile crack of glass as it slips into the Goodwill bin— someone who would give their one true love a star—or at least a sheet of paper costing $54 plus shipping and handling that mentions a star in a non-binding sort of way—shedding a single tear, a tear that might, just might, catch the fading light of Dawn Dee in the heavens?
Can I get a schadenfreude pumpkin here?
For the record, look out into the sky for The Unicorn, or Monoceros RA, 7h 13min 49 s D-03′ 52°. Maybe you’ll see Dawn Dee shining down on you. But only you, me, and Brenda, the Sunday stocker at Goodwill, will know its name.