Michael D. Davis.

June 2, 2026, was a Tuesday. A hair before five AM on June second, my dog, Dixie, dragged me out of the house to use the bathroom. The sun wasn’t up, but it was on its way as the sky was a deep navy blue. As Dixie wandered, attempting to find the perfect spot, I looked upward. It was there I saw a shooting star.

This made me think of perspective, and perspective made me think of two things. The first thing was that I’m almost 30. I don’t care about getting older, but I never thought I’d make it to 20. I’ve struggled a lot with my physical and mental health in my life, and to make it to 30 is really something. I’ve had more doctor’s visits than days of school and more suicidal thoughts than leaves in the forest. So, 30 is a welcome number.

Seeing that flash in the sky made me think that nothing’s as bad as it seems, and everything’s gonna stay copacetic. (Knock on wood.) Copacetic being a loose word here. I mean that on the best day or the worst day, my father will be doing something odd with a gourd or a rocking chair. My sister will be pointing out spelling errors and, for an unknown reason, being angry at someone. My Ma will have a new story and/or be watching something gruesome on TV. And I will either be painting or having my luck be as bad as it gets. It was one of those moments that just made you think, ‘It could be worse.’

The second thing it made me think of is the perspective in general. It’s moments before dawn on June 2, twenty-five days before my 30th birthday. I am standing in the side yard next to the house where I’ve always lived, in the town where I’ve always been, staring up at the sky, watching something that is billions of years old, that has travelled millions of miles, blink out of existence. All while my dog took a crap.