A Thousand Watts of Grace

Story ;

The summer I turned seventeen, I discovered that light could do more than illuminate—it could rewrite your soul. It wasn’t the kind of lesson you learn in a classroom or from a parent’s lecture. It came from a single night in a dusty Nebraska field, under a sky so big it felt like it could swallow you whole.

My cousin Ellie and I were staying at our grandma’s farm that July, a place where time seemed to move slower than the tractor creeping across the horizon. Grandma’s house smelled of lavender and old wood, and her rules were as firm as the oak tree in her yard: no wandering after dark, no skipping chores, no questioning her stories about the “old days.” But Ellie, with her wild grin and hair like a bonfire, wasn’t one for rules. “Come on, Grace,” she’d whisper, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Let’s chase the stars.”

That night, Ellie had heard about a meteor shower from some kids in town. “They say it’s gonna light up the sky like a thousand watts,” she told me, her voice buzzing with excitement. I hesitated. I was the cautious one, the one who folded her clothes before bed and never missed a Sunday sermon. But Ellie’s energy was infectious, like a song you can’t stop humming. So, when Grandma’s snores echoed through the house, we slipped out the back door, our sneakers crunching on the gravel path.

The field behind the farm was a sea of tall grass, swaying under the moon’s pale glow. We spread a quilt on! We lay on our backs, staring at the sky, waiting for the show. Ellie was chattering about constellations, but I was half-listening, my mind drifting to the future—college applications, leaving this small town, becoming someone new. The stars were pinpricks in the velvet dark, and I felt small, like my dreams were too big for a girl from nowhere.

Then it started. A streak of light slashed across the sky, then another, and another. The meteors came in waves, blazing trails that burned into my retinas. It wasn’t just light—it was alive, pulsing, like the universe was shouting. Ellie whooped and clapped, but I was silent, my chest tight with something I couldn’t name. It was as if the sky was telling me I wasn’t small, that my life could be as bright as those fleeting sparks.

“Make a wish, Grace!” Ellie shouted, grabbing my hand.

I closed my eyes, but instead of wishing for college or a big city life, I wished for courage—to chase what scared me, to stop hiding behind “sensible” choices. The meteors kept falling, each one a promise, a thousand watts of fire saying, You can burn bright too.

We stayed out until the sky quieted, the meteors fading into dawn’s pink haze. Ellie fell asleep on the quilt, her arm slung over me, but I lay awake, the light still buzzing in my veins. I didn’t know what was next, but I knew I’d never see myself the same way again.

Back at Grandma’s, we got an earful for sneaking out, but even her scolding couldn’t dim the glow inside me. That night wasn’t just a meteor shower—it was a turning point. I started taking risks after that summer: I applied to an art program I thought was out of my league, I told my parents I wanted to study something impractical, I even dyed my hair purple just because I could. Each choice felt like a meteor, bright and bold.

Years later, I’m still chasing that thousand-watt feeling. I’m not famous or rich, but I’m living a life that feels like mine. And sometimes, when the world feels too heavy, I drive out to a field, lie on a quilt, and look up. The stars are still there, whispering that I’m enough.

shohel rana