Long ago, the Greeks imagined two fish tied together by a cord, swimming away from the monster Typhon. The cord, they said, kept them from drifting apart in the currents of the heavens.
This Monday, Pisces hosts a little drama of its own. Close by the moon, almost lost in its glare, lies Neptune. You won’t see it without optical help, but knowing that the most distant planet is lurking there lends weight to the night.
If you do track down Neptune in Pisces, linger. Just to the east lies a star with a story even stranger — 19 Piscium, a so-called carbon star. Unlike ordinary suns, its atmosphere is rich in carbon, and that changes its colour. Through binoculars, it smoulders with a deep reddish tint, the way embers look when the fire is almost out.
Carbon stars are elderly, nearing the end of their lives, puffing out dust that drifts into the galaxy. That dust, rich in carbon, nitrogen and other life-friendly atoms, eventually becomes part of planets, part of us. It’s not poetry to say that some trace of our bodies once flickered from such stars.
So Monday’s sky offers more than a meeting of the moon and planets. It’s a reminder that the heavens are full of quiet linkages: fish tied by a cord so they won’t lose each other, a planet so far away it’s almost invisible, a fading star gifting its elements to future beings.
If you step outside after dark and give your eyes a little time, you’ll see more than light points. You’ll see stories, inheritance and connection.
If you smile at the thought that a star in Pisces might have lent you a few atoms, that’s astronomy’s gift — a sense of belonging to something vast, ancient and still unfolding.
