I saw a shooting star last night. It fell toward the Western horizon, into the Pacific ocean. White-hot blue and gone in less than a second.
My grandmother Sara died in the night, not long after the shooting star. She died on my thirty-eighth birthday. If I remember one thing about my grandmother, it’s her immense love for all of us. If I remember a second, it’s her tenacity and hustle. It’s a common trait among all of us. She faithfully sold her costura every Sunday. I remember thinking, “why does she sell those things? Her children look after her and it is unnecessary,” but as time passes I see that simply being is not enough. There must be a reason, a desire to fulfill. My grandmother traveled widely in her later years, visiting her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Last I saw her, she was tearfully joyful, as was her way. Overcome with emotion. My father and all of his children inherited the trait as well. A reminder that we are human beings, and we matter.
I looked up as I walked home hours before her death and saw the sky had cleared after a rainy afternoon. Orion stood in the sky, his belt forming a reassuring connection to the purity of a chaotic universe. A believer might see in that the father, the son, and the holy ghost. I see the constant of my place here on earth, a certainty that they were here before me and will be here long after I also pass. Until then, it’s you and I and our connection to each other.
It turns out that a shooting star is a very common sight if one takes the time with the night sky. I don’t always look to the sky, too focused on events here on the ground, but I still remember every one.
