The bucket-list trip

Kenji stood beside the lodge with his hat pulled over his ears.

His wife, Emi, handed him a flask.

“Anything?”

“Stars.”

“Quite a lot of them.”

He smiled without looking away.

The photograph had lived above his desk through two jobs and a move.

Green light across a northern sky.

Whenever someone asked, he said, “One day.”

At retirement, Emi took it down and placed it beside breakfast.

“Could we find out?”

They spoke with a specialist about the journey, the cold and what conditions could mean. Nobody could promise the lights. They chose enough time to enjoy the place even if the sky refused.

Kenji packed the photograph anyway.

The first night brought cloud.

The second brought a clear sky and no show.

During the days, they walked short trails, ate soup near a window and listened to the lodge host tell stories. Kenji learned how long he could stand outside before his toes objected.

On the third evening, he stayed in longer.

“Are you giving up?” Emi asked.

“I'm warming up.”

Then someone knocked.

Outside, a pale band had appeared above the dark trees.

Kenji tried to decide whether he was imagining it.

The band grew brighter. A fold of green moved through it, slowly enough to watch and quickly enough to lose if he looked down.

He fumbled for his phone.

Emi touched his wrist.

“You can take a picture. But look first.”

He looked.

For a while, the photograph in his suitcase had nothing to contribute.

Back home, he returned it to the wall.

Beside it, he hung a smaller picture Emi had taken.

The lights were faint. His face was blurred. One ear of his hat stuck out.

He liked that picture better.

On his desk, there was space for another idea.