I’d never seen a meteor shower. I’d never seen more than one shooting star in one night, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one at all. The house was very quiet near three am, reportedly the best time to see the spectacle. I dressed with haste and ran out with eager quietness, my hands deep in my pockets, my jacket zippered up to the chin and still I sank my chin into the warmth like a turtle into his shell. The towering silhouettes of my favorite trees seemed to be a council of jurypeople over me, a high court in a palace of night. I climbed up into my old play structure, braced my back with equal fear and excitement against the tamed slope of the roof, looking up, looking around me. I lived on the edge of a city, so my relationship with the stars was more sacred and more constant than anyone in the suburbs, but still I had to wait a long moment and five minutes more until I saw the first star shoot across a short stretch of sky. I gasped and closed my eyes hastily, wondering if I was too young to wish for another. Orion and Ursa Major seemed brighter, so much brighter than in reality and so much dimmer than in my dreams. The second star fell, and then three more, with long breathless moments in between. I didn’t make any wishes but I sang on the inside for the miracle. The hardest part was knowing what they were – comets and fragments of comments flying into nonexistence, and I also pondered how I could lean back, my down jacket against the damp wood, seeing and not seeing the projections over hundreds of years – things that didn’t exist anymore.
So I wished on the last star. I wished for an adventure.