Perseids

January 21, 2018

I miss the first three meteors.

Number one is only seen by a few, the ones who already know what they look like. This is my first meteor shower. Spread across a backyard on three sleeping pads that are too small, technically, to hold six people, I am distracted by my sweatshirt, which is stuck under someone’s arm, and by the music, which floats from a speaker to the left. Matthew gasps—“Oh, look!”—but I am too slow; the moment has passed. I settle into position, rest my head against Stephanie’s shoulder, and tell myself I will definitely catch the next one.

The second meteor is very faint, which is the excuse I latch onto when Matthew—the veteran meteor-watcher of the group—interrupts me to point it out. I am in the throes of philosophical self-reflection, awed by the stars, which are plentiful here on the outskirts of Chapel Hill. I’ve just noticed that the tree-line, ironed black against the sky, is shaped rather like a one-eyed monster, and am in the midst of informing my friends of this exciting observation. And then I see Venus, glowing at the base of the monster’s tail, and all of a sudden it hits me: the universe, turning, taking my breath away as it goes.

“Oh, my God,” I say out loud. “We are tiny.”

No one answers, because just then, the second meteor flashes across the sky, decapitating the one-eyed monster, drawing a chorus of gasps, and disappearing before I can turn my head to see it.

The third is, apparently, “really awesome.” It has been nearly an hour, and we have shifted positions—blankets were introduced at some point, and we are curled up into each other’s warmth, the music growing progressively sleepier as the clock moves toward midnight. I’ve ended up beside Charlie, and we are in the midst of a pun war when Matthew—a self-proclaimed astronomer by this point – lets out a wow. Trying to beat Charlie’s “I would be lion if I said that pun was good” (the theme of this verbal battle has somehow settled on animals), I am too busy laughing to focus on the sky.

“I’m never going to see a meteor,” I say, dramatic and despairing, while Charlie snickers next to me, convinced he’s won the pun war.

“Classic Veronica,” he says.

I turn. “Both that attempted insult and your previous pun were very low koala-ty.” He shuts up.

The fourth meteor arrives lazily. It has grown quiet in the wake of my linguistic victory; Stephanie has turned off the music, and the only sounds are our breathing, occasional words, and an owl hooting nearby. I open my eyes after a yawn, and suddenly there’s a silver streak among the stars, blazing a path toward the opposite side of the world. All at once, I am unsure, like I imagined it, the moment too fleeting for me to be certain it really happened. But my friends are raving, and my brain is telling me yes you really saw it, and I know, somewhere in my chest, that it was real.

We pack up the blankets and the sleeping pads afterwards, slip on our shoes and unfurl our flashlights onto the dark ground. The trek back is short, but we linger, gazes drawn upward, the hope tangible between us.

And number five appears, trailing a radiant fingertip behind itself. It is beautiful, ephemeral, brilliant. It is silent, confident in its celestial glory. And, after a heartbeat, it is gone.

The night stills. The owl seems to have disappeared, and I again find myself thinking, we are so small. A moment. Then the trees let out a sigh, and so does Matthew.

“It’s late. We should go.”

Without verbal assent, but with the drag of our footsteps, we start towards the house.

Header image courtesy of Space.com