I woke Jacob up in the middle of the night. Even groggy he knew enough to accept an invitation to go and do. I wrapped him in his down blanket and carried him out on the back deck and up the ladder to the roof. I carried him to the peak of the roof where we sat together. He shivered, but he watched. We both watched.

Jacob and I have been talking about the northern lights lately. It occurred to me recently that though we live here, he’s never seen them. Of course he’s always in bed asleep when they’re out. I’ve tried to describe them and to explain what they are. He’s been a little interested, but it’s an abstract concept.

One day last week we were driving when he asked me if, when he grew up, he’d have to move away somewhere so that he could see them. No, I said. They’re right here. They’re always here, but you can only see them at night. And only on some nights. Someday when you’re older, you can stay up late and we’ll see them together.

Last night the aurora was blazing across the night sky, right overhead and from one horizon to the next. It bent in great bands, arcs, and swirls; curtains of green fringed with red. I thought about driving out of town to get a better view, but not even the city lights were enough to drown them out. I used a ladder on the back deck to climb up onto the roof where I sat looking out over the neighborhood. I took a few pictures, wishing I had something wider than the 50mm I was using.  But what kind of lens can capture the whole sky? The magic of the aurora. The silence. The movement. The dark. The wonder.

Sitting on the roof of the house, I remembered Jacob and wished he could see this display. I didn’t have to think long before deciding to go get  him. And so we sat on the roof of our house, watching the aurora unfurl continuously above us. I watched him as he watched the sky, and tiny bands of green reflected in his eyes. This is something I want him to remember. It’s a story I hope he tells his children.