There’s something about the dark I’ve always loved. It’s been a comfort and a curiosity.
I was in the backseat during a road-trip, winding up through Pennsylvania last week. It was 11:30 or so at night. I knew I was almost home because I could lean my head back and stare up through the rear hatch window and see every.single.star and fine traces of the Milky Way. The light pollution had faded as we escaped from large city to small town to occasional house. I was moving down dark roads, through the woods, traveling through time to summer nights spent in the field, acquainting myself with Ursa Minor, Draco, and Corona Borealis. I placed them on the ceiling of my room so I wouldn’t forget where they were, glow-in-the-dark reminders of my very northern friends. The first of them to appear to me that night was my old familiar, the Big Bear, Ursa Major — the end star guiding me to Polaris and home.