I am Estele. This name means “star,” and though it is true the name does not make a person, I have always had a great love of the night sky, decked out in its crystalline glory of a fine, clear night.
Take now, for instance.
Here I am, sitting outside for no better reason than to watch the mantle of the night overhead. The moon covers the garden in an uneartly light, which seems more to emanate from everywhere than to shine upon it. The garden is a lovely sight, with gardenias along the back fence, many colorful pansies and hibiscuses, as well as purple Mexican petunias running rampant around the foot of a small oak. The breeze, which has finally cooled down to what I term “Florida autumn”, lifts strands of my red hair off my neck.
I forget to mention, I am not alone in my musings. My cat, Rosie Verivivalsi, sits at my feet, purring simply from the joy of being with me. I named her according to T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Naming of Cats.” She and I are redheads together, and dreamers.