Brightly shining
It’s a balmy -15C (+4F) outside. Quite a drastic improvement from -45C a few days ago.
I went to the theatre tonight, a production of Peter Pan. I made my way home with thoughts of the ever-mothering Wendy who hopes for a thimble from her beloved Peter, of childhood imagination, of parents awaiting the return of their children, of memories that fade only too quickly.
Yet there are some stories that linger. Other stories that you remember them only by the retelling. Still others that only bring a flicker of recognition but catch you off guard.
The balmy air made me linger before going inside tonight. I looked up into the clear, black sky. A gloriously dark night, devoid of moonshine. And there were the stars. I stood, head tilted back, blissfully ignorant of the noisy neighbours, and searched out the familiar: Cassiopeia, the big dipper, Orion, the seven sisters (Pleiades).
The balmy air and the the stars above reminded me of a story from many years ago. A time and a place where the Northern lights would dance every night for me. And in this time and this place my father took me outside with an adjustable star map. We matched this disc with the orbs floating so far yet so close. And he told me the story of the seven sisters, of a father’s love, of protection.
The balmy air brought reminded me of a moment. I paused, I gazed, I remembered.
In that moment, all was calm and the stars were bright.
