Nights by the Water

The Perseid meteor shower was happening the other night, so I took a minute or so to watch the sky. I didn't see anything, but that's the Perseids—you'll see them every few minutes, so it's usually necessary to be out watching most of the evening.

Years ago, that was easier, because every summer a bunch of college friends would go up to Cape Cod for a week. One of us had made good financially, and she had a summer house on the Cape, right on an estuary off Buzzards Bay. We'd sit out of an evening, eating and then drinking wine well into the night. And every few minutes, a meteor would make a razor-slice of light across the blackness. Once one friend pointed out a satellite to me—a dot like any star, but scuttling through the stationary ones like a frightened insect—not going fast, but as fast as it could anyway.

All the friends had kids, and for that and other reasons we've drifted apart. Now we see each other once a year or so. What can you do? I have other friends I see more often. And I still get out and see the meteors when I can. It's nice just knowing they're there, too. I spent this other night quietly at home, and before bedtime I was reading a new book. I laid it on my chest for a moment, listening to the chorusing crickets and katydids outside, watching the cat who was curled up on the bed with me, and thought about how there was a layer of meteors happening miles above us, momentary lights in the sky, spread across us like a blanket.