I have a time sensitive window in which to see a shooting star.
And the time constraint is: how long does it take for my melatonin to kick in.
I’m wrapped in an old rescued creature comfort—the M&M blanket I stole from my sister, with bare feet on November pavement, and I’m looking up through the clouds in vain hope.
I’m not really waiting for a meteor in tonight’s meteor shower. They’re not supposed to get really exciting until 12 AM or so, and I’ll be deeply ensconced in my melatonin and my M&M blankey by then.
I’m not waiting for a meteor. I’m waiting for Jeremy. Who said he’d be out in five minute, which really means: I’ll be out in the time it takes you to write a whole blog post about me. But I am waiting for the Jeremy who makes the entire bed at the end of the day, just so he can turn down a cover for me. That’s who I am waiting for.
And with my feet on the pavement, I remember a random morning, as newlyweds when I was just waking up and he was just going to bed. And somehow in the wee hours, we remembered there was a meteor shower. So we drove to the darkest corner of suburbia we could find, laid on a patch of sprinklered lawn—probably with the same blanket—and tried to see enough shooting stars to make just one wish.
We failed then too at stargazing, but we got something grander than a fleeting wish. We got wisdom.
Because now I know that his late to bed has beautiful moments of overlap with my early to rise. We’re the middle of a Venn diagram.
My feet are getting just the tiniest bit cold, but I know he’s coming.
Sometimes we pass each other like ships in the night, but always stop to say hello, and look at the stars.