Freckles splatter across my face like paint along a canvas. She tells me they are stars, that they rest upon my skin because I am one of them.

A star, stranded among the earth.

I disagree. Compared to her, I am nothing more than a meteor, a hunk of rock floating through the emptiness of space, as interesting as a pebble in the river, wood chips in the garden, or a cloud in the sky.

She tells me, 

“To a penguin, a pebble is an offer of courtship.

Woodchips were once a mighty tree.

The biggest storms begin with a single cloud.”

“But most importantly,” she says,

“What did you think shooting stars were made of?”