Husband had never seen a shooting star. We set the alarm for 2:30. They said there wouldn't be a shower like this, not until the end of the century. Don't think we'll be around for that, so sleep will have to wait. I wake up ten times before the alarm goes off, sure we've missed it. Then, the loud braying, and I slip into a cacophony of warmies and head out the door unconscious. We creep up the stairs to the roof, where a massive harvest moon is dominating the light-polluted sky. Still, we settle into the cold roof pebbles and wait. Our glasses give us a small range of sky that is in focus. Only a few stars are brighter than the Los Angeles night. We watch them groggily, and within only a few seconds, the streaks start to puncture the sky. Even in our limited view, there are meteors every minute. It's wonderful. I'm reminded of long summers spent in the backyard, sleeping on my long folding chair, watching the Universe dance for me in my Popeye pajamas. It's Husband's turn for consecration. The rocks burn for him. He starts to worry that one might make it through the atmosphere and crash into him, an errant messenger exacting some horrible revenge for a dead planet. We smash together under mom's old fuzzy coat and shiver. Far after we think we've had enough, there's always the waiting for the last big one. Tiny streaks fling past, but it's never enough. Time to return to slumber and the paper stars that hang from the bedroom ceiling. Just as I walk inside, I hear Husband cry "Ohh!" He has his private moment with the sky.