Well, Kingston is not Alabama. And there was no crazy meteor shower here 175 years ago. But every time I come home at night, I’ll stay outside, sometimes sitting on my stoop, other times leaning against my car, and just look up at the stars. Without any light pollution (which I suppose is one of the few perks of living in the middle of nowhere), the stars look as though each one is a speck of glitter thrown onto a big piece of black construction paper. Remember those inflatable huts that used to be set up in elementary schools, with the employees using a laser pointer to identify the major constellations? Whenever I look up on a clear night, I feel like I’m back in the second grade, sitting on that dirty gym floor while craning my neck in awe at the bright lights above me. It’s something I missed at school, being able to stargaze. The sky is never completely dark there, but always a blueish-blackish hue with hints of purple and pink-the lights coming from D.C.

There’s something very comforting about looking up at the stars while listening to the train steam through town, drowning out for just a moment the myriad of crickets humming in the bushes.

If I were any more country, I’d be Laura Ingalls Wilder.

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