But Actually…

The waves' crest sparkles in the starlit night as they deposit sand around our toes, her feet now the same size as mine. It's just us on the beach – everyone else is at the Michael Jackson special in the resort auditorium.

A streak of light. I gasp. "Did you see the shooting star?"

She glances up, then back down, drawing concentric circles in the sand. "These aren't stars that shoot, Mom. They're asteroids."

Did she just roll her eyes?

"No, not asteroids. Just meteors," I correct her firmly. She tilts her head. "Umm… they can be asteroids, you know."

"No," I say, sitting up straighter, my voice serious now. "Asteroids stay in space. Meteors enter Earth's atmosphere."

"What about comets?"

"Nope. Comets are made of ice, and they have tails. What we just saw was a meteor."

She shrugs, unconvinced.

Convinced that I have NO significant possible cracks in the foundations of MY knowledge – I aced every exam I ever took – I ask, "Did they teach you this in school?"

"No."

That settles it. My turn to roll my eyes.

Later, when she's curled in bed, I step onto the balcony, tea in hand. Why did she look so self-assured? I've got to Google this.

Huh. Can't be.

I check seven different sources.

Whoopdeedoo.

Asteroids, meteoroids, comets. Not separate things, but a shifting state of being. An asteroid can become a meteor. So can a comet. So can a meteoroid, if it crosses the right threshold. Who knew?

The next morning, I slide a plate of Jamaican mango slices toward her. "I looked it up," I say. "You were right. About the asteroids. And comets."

"Umm hmm." She licks the mango juice dripping down her fingers. "I read it in a book from the library."

For a decade, I have been the keeper of knowledge. The explainer of the world.

I watch her eat, wondering at my own parents' unwavering certainty when faced with my questions. The way they would never cede ground, never admit to not knowing.

The boundaries shift. The categories blur.

A shooting star.

A fracture.

Infallibility rejected.