Georgina had lived in Greenwich Village since the seventies. Her daughter, Kate, had grown up in this very apartment. But the fact was, she’d never given up the hope of returning to Woodstock and living in an actual house on the Mill Stream. The sweet smell of grass in the morning and the sound of trees whispering their secrets to one another overhead at dusk were more in harmony with her psyche than the urban melody of horns, sirens, and jackhammers. And she missed the stars in the night sky. She’d grown up in starlight and moonlight, chanting the same words each evening of her childhood, standing under the open sky in the garden behind their house at firefly time: “I see the first star, and the first star sees me. God bless the first star, and God bless me.” How she had loved those moments, waiting for the first star to appear.
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