The aurora borealis—nature’s most ethereal dance—is often found in the Arctic Circle, lighting up the skies over places like Alaska, Canada, Iceland, Greenland, the Nordic countries, and Russia. But sometimes, when the universe stirs with a particular kind of magic, the lights travel farther south, painting the heavens in places they don’t usually reach. Places like Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It has been six months since my son Tom died on May 8, 2024. He was 23 years old—a fresh college graduate, a gifted artist, a sensitive, deep-thinking, goofy young man standing at the precipice of his life. He had only just arrived at the life he wished to build.

Two days after he died, our shattered little family—me, my daughter and her fiancé, my ex-husband (Tom’s dad) and his partner—arrived in Pittsburgh to gather Tom’s belongings and mourn with his friends. On that day, May 10, 2024, the northern lights crossed the heavens to dance above us, far south of their usual reach. As far south as Pittsburgh, where my son had only recently settled to begin his young, post-college life.

That night, as I lay in my hotel bed, devastated and exhausted, his friends began texting me photos of the sky above the city—shimmering in hues of pink and green.

“He’s painting the skies for us,” they said.

Indeed he was.

Science calls it Hale’s Rule—a solar cycle that peaks every 22 to 23 years, creating conditions ripe for auroras to appear in unusual places. But science will never be able to explain why the lights chose that precise moment and location to appear. Because it wasn’t science; it was Tom’s spirit and energy—no longer tethered to earth or rules. It was his love shining overhead for me and his sister, his father and stepmom, and his amazing community of friends and fellow artists.

To the indigenous Woodland Cree people, the aurora is more than a cosmic phenomenon; it is part of life’s continuous circle. The lights are believed to hold the spirits of departed loved ones, watching over the living and sending messages of protection and love. I hold that belief close because it feels personal.

Like the lights that appeared above us in Pittsburgh that day, Tom’s spirit still finds me everywhere. He is the magic in ordinary moments, people and places: the cardinal that sings outside my window every morning; a song on the radio at exactly the right time; the unmistakable red Mini Cooper that crosses my path when I least expect it.

When he was 19, Tom embarked on a Nordic road trip with his Finnish friends, Sami and Nalle. Together, they ventured all the way to the Arctic Circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the northern lights. The aurora eluded him then. Now he has the freedom to dance with them.