Go read yesterday's post if you haven't already.
So my nine-year-old daughter has three friends for a sleep over. I promise to take them out to look for shooting stars way past everyone's usual bedtime. And its cold. And this guy who I just met and really like tells me it doesn't look good on account of a bright moon.
Oh well, good faith and what the hell and me explaining that we probably won't see a thing but sure we can go on and try and don't get your hopes up and yeah, yeah, yeah.
Me and my dealy beloved arm ourselves with a flashlight and blankets and accompany four giggling little girls as they trek to the adjacent field. We spread out the blankets and they laugh and roll on the grass and pretend to see shooting stars.
"I saw one!"
"I made a wish."
"Did you hear that? That was totally a coyote."
"Hey! My foot!"
And I tell myself, it doesn't matter, they're having a good time anyway. The novelty of laying in a field outside so late at night and all.
"That was so way a shooting star."
Then, just at the right moment, when they are all looking at the right spot, a dazzling line of light cuts through the night sky. It dashes and sparkles and disappears as quickly as it appeared. We cheer and clap. We laugh and point.
I swelled inside: Yes! Yes! Yes!
Never ever lose your faith in magic.