I live on a stretch of Puget Sound that's seldom violent but even less often still. The narrowest expanse is five miles wide, and what with all the wind and currents and boats, I've never seen that expanse perfectly still. There's always a ripple in that five miles, somehow, somewhere. Until last night.
The sky was perfectly clear, the water stiller than ever before. And for the first time, the water was freckled with white lights. At first glance, I thought there were hundreds of boat lights. But no, at that moment, the water had actually formed a perfect mirror. Instead of smearing starlight into streaks, it reflected them perfectly. All of them. Centered in my bedroom window were two perfect Big Dippers, back to back. And a few thousand of their friends.
There was a time of my life where beholding this marvel alone would have been bittersweet, when I would have wished for someone to share it with. But not now. Now, if I think of anyone else at all, it's one thought only: "Thank God the AW isn't here to say something pretentious and ruin this."
This is growth, I guess.