The Summer of Falling Stars

The bright moon is merely a sliver, a thin, shining fingernail appearing low in the sky. In a few minutes, it will drop below the horizon, hiding itself from my gaze. With my eye pressed against the lens of my telescope, I slowly turn the knob, bringing the celestial object into focus. Its craters and seas begin to appear sharp and distinct. I can make out shadows and mountains. Even though the waxing crescent isn’t revealing much of its body to me, I know the moon is growing. Soon it will be a half-moon, then full, then a waning crescent, and finally a new moon, completely hidden. The never-ending cycle. A crescent moon symbolizes new beginnings and positive change, according to one of my astronomy books. That may just be based on myths, but it’s something I can get into. I myself am hoping for changes. I move the telescope up just a bit, and — ah! there it is. “Hello, King Jupiter,” I say. “You’re looking especially jovial tonight.” I chuckle at my little joke. The moon and Jupiter a...

Okay, last day of school. The morning flies by quickly. Everyone buzzes and gossips about their summer plans. I don’t say much, but everyone already knows my plans because it’s all I can talk about. I’m going to be a pirate in Peter Pan! I’m standing at the drinking fountain at school, thinking about it. A strong arc of water emerges from the spout. The pressure is just right: not too high, not too low. I put my lips to it and take a refreshing sip. As usual, it is ice cold — the coldest water in the whole school. I have frequently gone out of my way to quench my thirst from this bubbler. I take a couple of slurps, raise my chin, and wipe the dribbles off my mouth. I tick this off my mental checklist: Last drink from this fountain — check! ... Last walk down this hallway — check! ... Last lunch in the cafeteria — check! I have put a mark next to item after item today. My last math class, my last recess, my last trip to the restroom — check, check, and check. Next year, I will start a n...

I arrive home at the same time as Mama. She works part-time at the bank, and her shift ends in the early afternoon. “Must be nice to have banker’s hours,” Dad has teased. Yes, I still call her “Mama.” (I call my dad “Dad, and my grandpa “Papa.” I don’t know why; that’s just the way it is.) She insists on it. “Only you can call me ‘Mama,’” she once asserted. “It’s your special name for me.” So, I’ve called her Mama ever since I learned to talk. But as I’m getting older, it’s getting embarrassing. All of my friends call their mothers “Mother” or “Mom.” When a guy at school heard me refer to her that way, he joked, “Oh, does the little baby need his Mama?” I wanted to slug him. I once tried on “Mom” for size. Her facial expression appeared conflicted. I couldn’t tell if she was going to cry or if she was getting mad. Either way, I knew she did not like it, so I dropped it. I continue to call her “Mama” — but only when no one else is around. Mama and I get along okay. Some of my friends te...