~This piece was originally posted on Literary Traces on April 9, 2013.~
It was, indeed, beautiful. All those tiny pinpoints twinkling against an endless velvety dark blue void. My pulse quickened. My head felt weightless. I held onto his hand tighter. Between feeling so incredibly small, falling in love, and my extreme fear of all things huge and unknown, I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose consciousness or vomit. Maybe both.
When I was a little girl I would proudly announce that I was going to be a ballerina and an astronaut when I grew up. I wanted to dance on the moon. I absorbed every book I could find about the solar system. I would recite the planets (in order from the sun, of course), to anyone willing to listen. The idea of something so big that we hadn’t found the end yet, fascinated me.
My curiosity-filled innocence slowly faded and in its place stood anxiety, fear, and panic. They, at times, consumed me. I no longer looked at the sky in awe and amazement. I avoided looking up at all out of fear of what may be, of what I didn’t know. I would glance at a harvest moon and momentarily forget that I was fearful. Then a wave of panic would awaken me from my daydream and anxiety would settle in once again.
Then I met him. We spent our first summer under dark and moody skies. Thunderstorm after thunderstorm would roll through. We would watch from my truck as the sky changed from clear blue to steely grey to black. Together we would watch lightning rip through the clouds. Claps of thunder echoed in my ears along with the pounding of my completely smitten heart.
Warm nights were filled with star gazing and storytelling. I started to forget my fears. As long as he was beside me, I could do anything. The unknown was a beautiful place to be.
Four and a half years later, we married on a beautiful October day. The sun warmed my bare shoulders and made his blue eyes sparkle brighter than the sky. Later that night, we surrounded ourselves with friends and celebrated our union. I found myself looking up at the stars. The infinite unknown didn’t seem so scary. It seemed hopeful, promising. Maybe not knowing was better after all.
It has been nearly 11 years since our first summer. We have a daughter now. She asks about the stars and the moon. Together we look at the night sky. I hold them both, to keep me firmly on the ground. I still feel those rushes but I know that I have them to hold me. I have him.
He looks over at me, his eyes still sparkling like that clear October sky, “It is beautiful”, he says.
Yes, my love, it is beautiful.