Once a day I try to remember to look up at the sky. I look up and say to myself, each time, "That goes on forever." Wait for the word to sink in. When it doesn't, I supplement with other words: ever-expanding. Vast. Endless. Farther than we are capable of understanding.
I think of the light that has taken years to reach me, the light I'd miss if I wasn't looking for it right now, in this moment. I don't mean I would miss it in that yearning way, not the way I miss my family over miles and miles. I mean I would miss it the way I missed knowing my grandfather, missed breathing even one breath during his lifetime, missed sharing so much as a sentence with the man who gave me, they say, my love of words. He put bookplates in his books and I trace them with my fingers, wondering if the ink rubbed off on my hands whether the print of his name could seep into my blood and I could come to know him that way.
It is good to remember that this light traveled years to shine down on me and I looked up at exactly the right time, and I saw it.
I stand under the sky and think of this: of myself, so small, of you, us, here, today, still. Still here. It is a fundamental property that energy is never lost, neither created nor destroyed, but conserved, converted. We breathe the dust of stars and dinosaur bones. Nothing is lost. No one. Not really. In a closed system, everything is only... timing.
We were never meant to see the edges of the universe. So I stand there, neck craned. I close my eyes and imagine for a moment what is impossible to imagine, and then I open them again.
I keep them wide.
I do not want to miss the light; it has come so far to be seen.
One month. 26 posts. A to Z. (Don't know what I'm talking about? Check out the Challenge here.)