Stargazing

The sky is clear tonight, and I was able to see the stars as I drove home and walked out to the mailbox. Venus shines brightly near the pathway the moon travels, and other constellations stand out against the depth of space. A few nights ago I saw the moon as it was rising, and although only a sliver was illuminated, the rest of it was also faintly visible. The orb of it seemed to be rising out of the sea, only to be plunged back below its surface in a matter of hours.
I witness the passage of Venus, and as my mind wanders, I realize that one of these stars could be dying in a brilliant supernova right now, but we on earth will not see it for light years...how many generations into the future? This starry night, with frogs singing from their secret places in watery drainage ditches, brings a memory to mind. It is a memory not specifically of one time, but of many starry summer nights through the years. I remember something that has become a sort of tradition. On warm summer nights in Oregon, it would be very hot and stuffy inside the house still, and so I would sit outside on the deck before going to bed. I would be barefoot, the deck would be rough beneath my feet, and the uneven boards would creak a bit. I would pull up one of the dirty old patio chairs, brush the fallen madrone bark and leaves off of it, and sit looking up at the sky. Often, one of the dogs would be there too, laying at my feet or leaning against my leg as I slowly run my hand over its soft ears and fur. Breathing in, I would smell the familiar dry scents of summer: the madrone tree in the yard shedding its leaves, the faint smell of a barbecue, the breezes coming from the direction of the river. Sometimes my dad would join me outside, contentedly smoking a cigar in peaceful silence, while we looked up at the stars. If I waited and looked long enough, I might see a shooting star, or at least pick out a satellite making its way steadily across the horizon. The wind would stir the dilapidated wind chimes, and the song of crickets would match the flickering of the stars. Bats would come out, fluttering silently overhead, their shadowy acrobatics unnoticed by most of the sleepy world.
I had some of my best conversations with Dad out there, talking about the past, the future, the present, music, and ideas until his cigar had burned low (and I had tapped the ash off at least once), the breezes had cooled me, and the mosquitos had become alerted to my presence. I would pat the dog and stand up, old boards groaning as the deck adjusted itself, and take one last deep inhalation of the starry night before going in to bed.