Dear Wigleaf,

Stars are falling from the sky tonight. There is no need to worry. This has been foretold. I'm planning to watch the Perseids meteor shower with two children who I'll wake at midnight, swaddle in blankets, and curl up with in a chaise lounge as raccoons chitter in the woods. I should mention that this plan involves my own children. There is no need to worry. They have also been foretold.

Wigleaf, did you realize that the secret to Perseus's success was Medusa's severed head? I wonder if this myth holds a teachable moment for my children. As in: Kids, all you need to make it in this world is a severed head! Someone else's severed head, that is. Preferably one that turns bad guys to stone.

Or maybe the message is mobility: In this life, either you fulfill your quest, or you get stoned!

I'm still figuring it out. Parenthood seems to be a series of errors you fumble through while feigning competence.

Or, later, when we're looking at the sky, maybe I'll just keep my mouth shut and let my kids squabble over the flashlight and ask me about the constellations and wonder if there are bears nearby and hold them close enough to feel their hearts beating out a story all our own.

Unless, of course, it rains. Thunderstorms have been foretold.

Now the wind is picking up.

Promise you'll join us next year, Wigleaf. We'll save you a spot.


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