Falling Starsby Bridget Stuart
Today's post will be shorter than usual, due to a broken wrist and a truly massive cast that goes right up over my elbow. Don't ask me how I broke it, because I'm too embarrassed to tell you.
But I do have a question of my own: am I alone in thinking they should line the inside of people's casts with the same absorbent, wicking material they use in baby diapers? Instead they wrapped my poor arm in polyester gauze. Polyester. And told me with steely eyes that I'm not allowed to pour powder in there, or insert kebab skewers in case of itching, as my friends suggested. Well what am I supposed to do, then?
"Mind over Matter", my doctor replied.
Tonight around eleven I'll be dragging my cast and a blanket up to the old Revolutionary War fort in my town and positioning it at the edge of the cliff that hangs out over the ocean. Then my cast and I will lie on our backs and watch the black sky until the stars fall. It's time for the meteor showers.
This was a tradition in my dad's family, and very special when we were kids because my sister was born during the Perseid showers. I'll be doing it alone tonight, because my kids are with their dad. I know in some ways it will feel strange.
But when I watch the stars, I feel a small and quiet connection to something that makes custody arrangements, my stupid cast and my uncertain future loom less large. And when the stars fall, as they do every year in August, the big universe may not notice, but I do. I mark their passing. Even as they flame out and disappear, they are things of infinite beauty.