Early every morning, Desiree and I soak in the hot tub just outside our back door. Given our short winter days, we presently find ourselves in full darkness amid the clear array of heavenly bodies.
While
soaking, we share stories of our night’s dreams, talk of our previous lives,
and watch for shooting stars.
Shooting
stars are not particularly rare. Something
near one million random objects spark against Earth’s atmosphere every day. Shooting stars are, after all, little more
than space junk hooked by gravity and pulled down, fizzling, through our sky.
The
other day, Desiree and I witnessed six shooting stars scratching at our heavens
in only a quarter of an hour. Rare or
not, we squeal with delight each time we see a stroke of light where an object has
ended a long journey to reach us.
This
is not a sacrifice.
This
is a celebration.
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