Seeing Stars

It was a dark and stormless night.  That part of the sky that was unblocked by the mountains among which our little valley nestled itself was, well, luminous.  There was no moon; all the light by which I could see the shape of my car, the curve of the top of our tent, the lumpy shapes of the rocks, and the grasping branches of the scrubby tree I stood near came from the stars.

If you’ve never been where you can see by starlight, you haven’t lived.

For a moment, gazing up in awe at the early Sunday sky from our camp in the Blair Valley, I considered waking Sihaya…a gentle whisper beckoning her to join me in a few moments of the sublime.  

In a minute, I thought.  I’ll get us a bottle of water to share.

I cringed when I unlocked the car, the silent blinker-flash and the fading-in of the interior lights trod heavily on the stars.  I pulled out two bottles of water and gently closed the trunk.

Twisting the top off one bottle, and tipping it up, I took in more of the sky.  Yes, I thought.  Sihaya will love this.

The breeze that had so whipped the camp fire during our earlier revelry had died; in its place was only silence.  Even the coyotes seemed to be sleeping.

And. then. she. snored.

It’s a gentle sound, and one I find endearing, though I have not yet convinced her of this.  Perhaps I will, someday.

Standing in the flawlessness of the predawn desert, holding one and a half bottles of water, I decide to let Sihaya sleep.  

In that moment, I know that she would love to come see the sky with me.  I am certain of it: next to the case of water in my car, there are two books on astronomy that she brought as an afterthought, in case we should have a moment to give to the sky together.

I love her for thinking of such things.

And I love the sound of her snoring.