The Star and I

A tiny star fell on my hand one evening, a little while before I turned eighteen. It did not hurt me. It was the softest, shiniest, most beautiful, most blinding thing I've ever seen. A spectrum of colors and mystery, a little hot but not burning. I asked where it came from.

"Across millions of eons, billions of galaxies, just for you," it said. 

With the star's instructions, I wrapped a string around my waist and held on as we zoomed towards the sky, out of the view of the sleeping town, past the clouds and the great satellites, into the depths of the Milky Way. I felt dizzy but exhilarated. A profound happiness I've never felt before.

The star plucked planets out of the fabric of space and made them into jewelry for my lengthening hair. It whispered the secrets of space-time and held me on as we toured around bursting pillars of interstellar gas. 

I saw the universe with new eyes. It was grand. It was beautiful. My life before the star seemed incomparably dull. The monochrome of every day was replaced by this inexhaustible blur of curiosity and joy and nebulae-watching. I wished the night would last forever.

It wasn't long, however, when the star pulled the string and gently led me back to earth. With a solemn voice, it bid its farewell. The star said that it was now time for it to see the universe on its own, to visit other beings, and to go to places I could not be. I cried. I protested. I begged for it to stay.

The star - sad as it was - flew away.

It has been a little over four years since, and the memories of that night persist despite my hardest efforts to bury them. At times, I feel the phantom planets on my hair. I've realized something recently, which is that it may not be necessary to forget. That the memories, though temporary, have shaped a part of me I cannot simply erase. Maybe I will never see space up above again, but I can be happy knowing that my little friend is still traveling among the galaxies, still experiencing the joy of exploration by itself.