A Last Summer Under the Stars

When I was sixteen, I spent my summers with my grandfather in the mountains. One August night

we climbed up to the old abandoned observatory to watch the shooting stars. I brought only a

sweatshirt and my sketchbook, convinced it would be an evening like any other.

Grandpa, however, was excited like a child. “Tonight something

will happen that you’ll never forget,” he said. As we lay on the grass,

the sky lit up with streaks of light one after another. It looked like a river of fire crossing

the universe. I had never seen anything like it. But the extraordinary moment wasn’t the

stars: it was what Grandpa confessed to me. He told me he was losing his sight,