I had a chance to walk my dog and my mother's dog tonight, alone, no children. Alone. I enjoyed being able to set my own pace. So many times I heft my 30-plus pound boy on my back or am dragging the four-year-old with the other hand while the dog give gentle pulls on the other.
As I walked, I looked at the houses, the azaleas in bloom, and marveled at the stars in the sky. Though technically I am still visiting a city, the lights are less bright than New Orleans, making the stars more brilliant to my eyes.
Near the end, in the western part of the sky, I watched a faint streak blaze for half a second. A falling star, I thought. I should tell the kids. Have to call it a meteorite, though. Falling star is so much better. Falling star. Hmm.
Then my mind went on a journey to the times and places I have seen meteorites. The most brilliant were in eastern Washington. Yet, the ones I cherish most I saw here in the Pensacola area, mainly on the beach. Would it be too cliche to write in a scene with falling stars in my next novel?