I remember the first time I really saw the stars. I mean, really saw them.
We were living in a more-or-less rural area, so we had a pretty good view of our celestial neighbors, but it wasn't mind-blowingly spectacular. My parents had picked my brother and I up from my cousins' house after they went to a concert; it was late to begin with, and home was another hour away.
We arrived back in town around three in the morning; I looked out the window when we stopped at the main intersection, and all at once every single light went out. Between the moon and the car's headlights we could still see. When we got home and rolled out of the car, for some reason I felt the need to look up. It was a marvelously cold, clear December night, and the sky look like it had exploded. My jaw dropped, it was so absolutely spectacular.
My brother always said he never really liked the night much, that it was too dark and you couldn't see the beautiful things like you could during the day. I love my brother dearly, but I disagree with him. It's not that you can't see the daytime's beauties, you just see them with a new perspective, in a whole new light. Shadows don't fall the same way en la luz de la luna as they do en la luz del sol. The stars are different upon each viewing as well. Sometimes there are few, other times there are many; sometimes they'll simply shine, or sometimes they'll dance. The stereotype that the night has one color, black, is horridly wrong in my mind. There are at least an infinite number of shades of dark blue up there in the course of the temporary darkness we call "night," often with hundreds present at one time. I often use part of the palette to describe my favorite shade of blue: just after the sun's disappeared, but it's still fairly bright, note where the sun just was and do a 180. The colors you're seeing are my absolute favorites.
Just thinking about the celestial multitudes, trying to fathom their greatness and beauty in comparison our little-ness, or at least try to do so, absolutely blows my mind. And it takes quite a bit to blow my mind. I think it's safe to say that it is quite a sight to behold.
It's no wonder that the Spanish word for sky, "el cielo," is used as a term of endearment.
Eso es mí, y eso es mi cielo.