This weekend, clouds like great, grey loaves roll across the sky. A lightning fork appears to touch the wood I’m heading for. At night, a beam of light, now green, now blue-white, slants up into the sky. And last night, that moon!
A year ago, I was getting ready for bed on Saturday night when I remembered that it was about time for the Perseids to make their annual crossing. It had been a cloudy day, and the city lit the dark dome of the sky with orange. Barely any stars were showing. I kept cleaning my teeth and nodded at myself in the bathroom mirror: Next year, I’d try and see them next year. And I would definitely remember to text Tara in the morning, tell her that yes, we could meet her on Tuesday in Greenwich, that I would be bringing the camera to finally get some proper snaps of her and Simon and Eden.
As you’ll know, if you read this blog, we never made it to Greenwich. Tara had a terrible heart attack that night and didn’t survive.
Her name means ‘Queen’ in Irish Gaelic. And in Sanskrit, star.
Everywhere, light in the sky. And tonight, as I raise a glass to Tara, to grieve her death and celebrate her life, I might try again to look for the Perseids. Or maybe I will fasten my eyes on Spectra, and remember what Fawzia told me about the moths that flitter around those floodlights, that in Trini legend they are considered to be the souls of the departed, come back to earth for a moment.