I was eight years old, buried in my grandfather's spare bed that smelled of mothballs and Tiger Balm, when my father tried to drag me toward wonder. It was 1986. Halley's Comet was visiting Malaysia, and the night air forgot how to be tropical.

For weeks, he'd been preparing me with stories shaped for a child's understanding. "The comet has a tail like a broom," he said, moving his hands through the air. "The tail follows behind like it's sweeping the stars." He put it as plainly as he could: this comet visits us on Earth "once in a very long, long time."

His eyes held something urgent.

The cool air hit my sleep-warm face as he pulled me from the bed. My younger brothers were left sleeping. Alex, six. Nick, only two. This was between my father and me, and I was too drowsy to receive it.

The carport of my grandparents' house in Kuala Lumpur became our observatory. The neighbors were already outside, their voices carrying in the unusual coolness, punctuated by gasps and words in Mandarin, Malay, and English.

My father pointed up, his finger trembling slightly, whether from excitement or from the strange chill, I'll never know.

Three seconds. That's how long I looked. All I saw was darkness punctured by ordinary stars. Nothing with a tail. Nothing sweeping anything.

The bed pulled me back. That's all there was.