One day I thought I saw a falling satellite but it was probably just a seagull.
When I was very little, legend has it I looked up at the sky and informed my mother there were stars but no moon, so she should buy one in the shops.
My brother (because he was younger and born in the age of technology) had a glow-in-the-dark constellation on his bedroom ceiling. I was jealous but pretended I wasn’t.
One day in Amsterdam, some students were looking at the sun through a blackened telescope. We watched the transit of Venus – a little dot of a world, like a pencil full stop.
When I moved to Canada, I was astonished when I saw the Milky Way for real. Then one day we lay on the dock by the lake and followed actual satellites with their intentional glides.
One night Mars was so close, it reflected red in the water.
Then came the Perseid meteor shower with its surprise fireworky streaks, then a trip to an observatory in the forest for a view of Saturn with its rings like jug handles.
This past week, a star has shined pin-sharp bright and see-me urgent as we watched Netflix in the den.
As a child, I loved the stars and their frying pan pattern.
Now, from my place of corona-vulnerability, I get pleasure thinking of tiny me spinning through space, stuck to the planet with gravity, with waves of light from the past entering my eyes and making me stop, pause, and notice.
It’s amazing we can do that, isn’t it? With our fleshy bodies, gluey eyes and sparky synapses.