Some moments swim around in the back of your memory for a long time, coming up for air every now and then to make you smile or laugh or cry. Sometimes all three.

One year ago today, I was standing in a rest stop parking lot in Arizona with my new wife at three o’clock in the morning, staring into the night sky. The car was filled to bursting with suitcases, pillows, empty water bottles, two cats and a dog. We had woken up early on the final day of our trip to get away from city lights so we could see the largest meteor shower in years. We were half asleep, exhausted from travel, excited to lay eyes on our new house. We were nowhere. We were free.

And there, in the dark desert sky, was a trailing line of brightness. And another. Streaks of light appearing sporadically across our field of vision before fading back into night. Pieces of an ancient comet, now become something new and beautiful and ephemeral. ¬†We would catch one out of the corner of our eye and try to point to it quickly so the other person wouldn’t miss it. Every now and then one would appear right where we were looking and our faces would light up with it.

We held hands and gazed silently into the heavens, halfway between our old world and our new. It was one of the most magical moments of my life.