I recall the golden-orbed fireflies of my childhood and the small Turkish rugs our father placed on the lawn during warm summer evenings. We three sisters each had one so we could lie down and view the star-strewn sky.
Our father talked to us about the Big and Little Dippers, Pleiades with the Seven Dancing Sisters, colorful Mars, silvery Venus, and the Milky Way.
We remember how Mama scolded Daddy for putting those expensive rugs on the dew-drenched grass. He replied that those rugs would eventually be in tatters, but we would always remember how comfortable they were for stargazing.
He was right. The rugs are gone, but the same bright stars still shine above my sisters and me. We remember, oh how well we remember! We didn't own a radio then, and television hadn't been invented yet. Our family seemed closer than breathing. Nothing has been more comfortable than those dew-dampened rugs, the quiet rise and fall of our father's voice as he explained things about the universe to us, Mama's gentle chidings, and a night full of pulsing stars.
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