One of the first things I usually tell potential dates is this — that I am afraid of the dark. Most times it is the benign fear that accompanies not knowing, and some times it’s a more paralysing fear, the fear that accompanies nightmares, and trauma, and anxieties come to life; often it is met with a kind of laughter that turns serious, when it dawns on the other person that they will have to decide now, at this critical juncture, if it even is worth it to sleep with someone who’s so, so afraid, and much more rarely will people be understanding — they will be the kind of people who, when the light flickers, will reach for my fingers with theirs, assuring, comforting. “I’m here,” they will say through a subtle squeeze of hands. “I won’t leave you.”
Another thing potential partners know is this: that I am completely smitten by meteor showers. In December every year, I convince friends and partners to hike with me when the Geminids are at their peak, and though I struggle still (because the darkness is less horrible when it is the darkness of nature), I always look forward to being in the mountains, huddled up with people I hold dear, witnessing for myself and through their eyes how magnificent things are, how little we are, and how amazingly we fit in the equation.
(If I fall for them enough, they will also know why my favourite meteor shower used to be the Perseids in August.)
This year, I have thought of telling many people these two truths, and sometimes, have told one but not the other. Rarely I have mentioned both, but it was more, “I wish you can see this,” as opposed to “I wish you were here. With me. Watching this.”
And though, quite frankly, I wish I could tell someone the latter, it’s just not happening anytime soon. Perhaps not for a while. (And perhaps maybe that’s what I’ve been wanting to wish for on the shooting stars.)
But tonight, armed with a Tock Soda, a blanket for warmth, Celeste Ng’s “Everything I Never Told You,” and accompanied by my almost-7 month old puppy, Elle, I went out, alternated between my hammock and a lawn chair, and stared at the sky. Illuminated only by the dimmest of lamps, sufficient to allow me to make out words from the novel (though admittedly I understood most from context, the leaves of the book casting shadows on the edges of the paragraphs), and overcoming my fear of the dark, I looked to the sky, and saw for myself — alone, but not quite — my favourite meteor shower of the year.
Perhaps the dark isn’t so scary after all.
Of perpetual finds 