We are tracing the lower chamber of Lake Michigan on 80/90 interstate in early December. Tall, golden grasses line the multiple-lane path to and from a funeral. The sun, which we all remark has been missing for over a week's time, bleaches the stalks of grass into pale yellow that perfectly completes an early winter color pallet against the rows of dull chestnut cornfields and sky blue sky. There are the five of us who skate past Gary, Indiana in our little red car into the outstretched lands of South Bend three times during the month. Once to say goodbye, once to attend the funeral, and once to provide support to those who survived.
It is Mayerli, my nine year old niece, who keeps this long journey tolerable if not even enjoyable. During our time together smooshed in little red cars, she tries to convince us that once her age reaches "two digits" that she is no longer a "kid". "I'm sorry, my love," her mother reports. "You will always be my kid, even when you have kids." Mayerli is my secret agent gently encouraging Ben to buy me a little orange kitten for Christmas (between attempts to tickle him). She presses her index fingers to her temple and rolls her eyes around for a minute and then begins to tell my future. Apparently my beloved Max-cat will live forever and my husband will forever change his kitty litter. Double bonus. Later she assigns us all superpowers- she has the power of fire throwing, I can control wind, Ben can temper the weather, Teo can run at lightning speed, and Rachel (her mother) can clean the house in one minute. "Wait a minute, how can i save the world by cleaning a house super fast?" Rachel asks. Mayerli capitulates. "Fine, you also have the power to protect little kids from violent video games."
The landscape is different on our way home in the nighttime. We are exhausted as only you can be after a funeral and then three hours at a crowded all-you-can-eat buffet. The cornfields and ornamental grasses recede into darkness and bilboards for lawyers and fireworks light up and dominate. But before then, in a small stretch of absolute darkness just west of South Bend, Rachel catches sight of a comet trailing across the northern sky. A power plant that looks like a skeleton of a city -vertical steel outlining hollow spaces and twinkling lights- pumps white billowing clouds into the dark sky.
"What makes clouds?" Mayerli wonders aloud. Ben is ready with an actual scientific answer as though he has been training for this event. As I can practically see him mentally adjust his invisble nerd glasses on the bridge of his nose, she continues to wonder: "And why can't they be made of candy so that when it rains, there are puffs of cotton candy falling from the sky?"
