The First Starry Night in Seattle

On the first starry night in Seattle, my beloved and I climbed onto the roof of an apartment complex (she says they were condos) to stargaze for the very first time. I had brought a blanket from my memories that smelled of safety. We didn't need it. The night was warm and the breeze was soft. Our summer clothes danced softly around our bodies on the first starry night in Seattle.

I prepared a feast of Top Ramen and Oreo cookies, paired with a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck just in case we forgot our tribe. We cleansed our pallets with oranges grown in my father's orchard as our feet dangled off the edge of the roof where we, like children, spat into the abyss, showering the foliage with citrus rain.

I took my beloved by the hand, turned up my phone and played ring-tone samples. We danced to midi versions of top 40 hits, classic rock, show tunes, and the Doctor Who theme. As we danced we stared at the stars for the very first time. The entire city was dark, so dark, but for the stars and the moon and her eyes and to this day I cannot tell you which shone brightest.

There was a quietness on the first starry night in Seattle, a quietness that grows from darkness. There were no streetlights buzzing, no television talking heads cheerleading, no karaoke, no video games. An occasional rustle in the bushes, raccoons or perhaps an emancipated lap-dog running off into the wilderness to join a pack of wolves.

The night was so calm that it bordered on sacred. We respected our elders with renditions of songs that our grandmothers heard on the radio as children when the family would gather around and listen to voices from farther away than you can see. We sang songs that our brains learned from O Brother Where Art Thou but our bones always knew, songs that make poor white kids like us feel like we've always been this way, and that's really fine. Our songs turned to prayers, and our prayers turned to lullabies, and our lullabies turned to whispers, and our whispers to dreams.

I held my love's hand, on the first starry night in Seattle, and we slept on the roof of the apartment complex (she says they were condos). We woke up to sunshine, and noise. The city came back. The buses were honking. The televisions were barking. But, all I could hear with any clarity was the sound of her breath like the sound of the ocean caressing the shore when there is no wind and the tide stands still.

I pray every day that the first starry night in Seattle isn't also the last. I would like to see the city get the rest it deserves one more time. I would like to once again dance on the roof, singing old-timey and stargazing. But if it never comes again, there's still the glint in my love's eyes, there's still the twang in my singing voice. There's still the feeling that we've always been this way, and that's really fine.