I Write to You About Julie, My Wife

      Writing to Karen Carpenter

I named a star after her. Astronomers call it
HD 10180. Both Julies—the woman I remember

and her eponymous star—emit a kind and generous
light. The star deserves a name that twinkles, and she

deserves the star. I never called her HD 10180,
but often call the star Julie. I chose it out of billions

because, like you, Julie got along so well with others—
none of that blasting the neighbors with deadly gamma

ray bursts, the way some pulsars do. And like the star,
my wife, when she was alive, had a family that orbited

her adoringly. Astronomers have identified a possible
gas giant, designated HD 10180g, residing comfortably

in Julie’s habitable zone, and—though the giant’s crushing
gravity could never support planetary life, they may find

moons that do. Suspected of strong winds and colorful
bands, without Julie’s life-giving warmth and shine,

HD 10180g would be little more than a vast frozen cloud,
a derelict adrift in deep space. I wish I could point out Julie

to you, but it’s in the constellation Hydrus, which is only
observed from the Southern Hemisphere, and, though

brighter than our own sun, Julie resides one hundred and
twenty-seven light-years away. We’d need a telescope.

I understand your concern that the striking similarity
between the designations HD 10180 and HD 10180g

might confuse some observers. Don’t worry.
To anyone who ever saw us together, it’s obvious

I am the gas giant, and she is the star.

     First appeared in The Main Street Rag