Celestial Gift

     "Turn off the light."

    She didn't move.

    "You've got to see this! Really! Turn off the light! The stars are out--diamonds in the sky."

    "I can't see to read if I turn off the light." She held up the book as evidence of some kind, dramatically turned a page, and went back to The Evil Wind in the Northwest Corner of Somewhere or some such thing. Probably a mystery, or, worse, a psycho-babble-thriller, not that he would ever offer an opinion of her literary tastes.

    But the night sky was especially clear and star-filled. If she would just turn off the light for a minute or two . . . or thirty, she--they--could see it. He knew she was stubborn, had never liked being told what to do, but the night sky was especially clear and star-filled. If she would just turn off the damn light for a minute or two . . . or thirty, she--they--could see it. But she'd never liked being told what to do, and now made a predictable show of turning the page of The Gale of Death, and appeared to be reading.

    So he did it for her--leapt up like Gabriel himself, grabbed the book, flung it across the room, turned off the lamp, pulled her up by the hand, as she resisted, protested . . . and laughed, he noted . . . danced her across the room, through the kitchen, and right out the back door.

    "I'm freezing!" 

    A clear invitation to wrap his arms around her.

    "Now, look up, up and out," he whispered in her ear. "Look up," which she did, eventually, overcoming her instinctive aversion to being told what to do. She looked up and her gasp of wonder, of joy, of delight, of surrender told him he'd done the right thing . . . again . . . and with the added bonus of holding his beloved tightly, probably too tightly, in his arms, on a glorious, star-filled night.