I wanted to author her story before she had the chance to live it all. I expected she kept her history from those who could not charm it out of her beneath bed sheets or starry skies.

The winding turns around capes, the unclouded sky, the flower mottled hills existed only as an aspect of waiting. Towns, civilization, meant the possibility of stopping for a meal, for the night even. Deep forest preserves through which a dirt road cut, gorgeous vistas that made one in awe of nature, only meant we were not yet near our destination.

Instead of the birds of the sky and beast of the field, the gods were more than men because Man needed them to be, for what could the world be if Man were the best of all creatures?

At the first of the explosions, I was no longer seeing the fireworks, but as a superimposition of every time that I had sat on concrete and plastic and sand and wood and gazed at the sky the day before vacation ended. I lost this experience in how comingled it was with the past and with vague accounting of when next I would see fireworks.

The night sky made her feel infinite before she knew the word.

Adolescence impelled her eyes to stay at an even keel, to deal with the ground before flickering to the heavens. Night became not dotted with fairy clouds of celestial brilliance, but simply the time when the sun was out of sight.