Reading old entries.

Feeling the need to expound upon the previous one.  One day, when I'm a better writer, I will be able to incorporate hints of exposition into prose.  Effortlessly.  Yeah, that's the plan.

It was impossible for me not to draw parallels between the meteor shower and Frankie, the small "you" in mid-December.

Driving out into the country for an hour and a half before the light pollution starts to dim, scattered stars multiplying bright under a new moon.  Parking the car by an unknown lake, miles from the freeway.  An occasional splash or honk from unseen waterfowl, but mostly silence.  Braving the darkness and strangeness and cold, bundling up in hoodie and gloves, craning your neck up to watch for meteors.  Unbidden exclamations of delight as a comet streaks across the sky, and you could swear you saw its tail catch fire in the clouds.

A small puppy from a questionable source, some kind of fluffy Chihuaha thing, apple-headed and sweet-natured, maybe two pounds, with a long fringe on his tail that blurred when he wagged.  Foisted off on an unsuspecting vet tech - "Oh he's vomiting?  My granddaughter can fix him!" - "...thanks for the sick dog, Grandma?"  He looked like he'd pull through, especially with the anti-emetics and antacids and IV fluids on board.  He shone briefly but bright, and we didn't expect to fall for him; we knew better and we did it anyway.  Story of everyone's life.

And there's the parallel - a bright, dazzling accident, a piece of celestial debris, gone before we could get a photograph, any record of existence, and gone long before it could establish a place for itself on Earth.

But we saw it, before it winked out of existence.

Thus, context for the possibly maudlin and still self-conscious but no less heartfelt eulogy.