There was a carnival down on the town’s square with games and concessions set up all along the street. I went down there on a Saturday morning. There was a booth where a man did amazing things with soap bubbles. I stopped and watched as he blew a bubble for a little girl in a brown coat who stood before the booth in rapt anticipation. He blew the bubble in the shape of a toy soldier. I could make out the shape of the tall hat and the bayonet slung over its shoulder. He just kept blowing the bubble bigger and bigger. It grew up higher than the surrounding buildings on the square. It grew up higher than the ferris wheel spinning across the way. It stretched high into the sky and the little girl strained to look up, but it grew higher than she could see. It grew to fifty thousand feet or more. It grew beyond the blue sky, out into space, towering over our tiny little planet. Then, unable to keep its shape in the void of space, it finally burst, raining down in droplets of flickering light. The little girl giggled ecstatically as she raced around in circles, trying to catch the falling stars.