"Every person I meet, every experience I’ve had, leaves behind a star — a fragment of light I carry with me."

 

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How many stars do we carry without realizing it?
 

My cousin and I once ravaged through the cold, cluttered basement, hunting for taped hockey sticks misplaced during the move. We planned to roll a rubber ball outdoors between makeshift laundry-bucket goalposts. Among the mess, a dust-covered digital piano sat tilted on dented cardboard boxes — the perfect distraction. My fingers instinctively pressed its keys, repeating the only six chords I’d ever learned.
 

“Where did you learn that?” my cousin asked, barely glancing up from the boxes he rummaged through.
 

“I had a friend teach me once,” I replied, almost dismissively.
 

Isabel was (and still is) a piano prodigy. Even in middle school, she played long, intricate pieces at Christmas concerts, her fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys. For her, this meant sacrificing recess to practice in the music room. For me, it meant skipping games outside to tag along, trailing behind her in the carpeted room filled with digital pianos.
 

One day, during her break from relentless practice, she asked, “Wanna learn how to play the Fairy-Tail theme song?” I teased her endlessly about watching that anime, but her offer made me jump from my seat. Sitting beside her on the piano bench, she gently placed my fingers on the keys, guiding me through the notes. I never mastered more than six chords, but I played them over and over, thrilled by the melody. To this day, whenever I pass by a piano, I instinctively stop to test myself. Somehow, I still remember those six chords.
 

At a long-term care community where I volunteer as Engagement Staff, a particular evening stands out to me. I was assisting a gentleman with dinner — a plate of sloshy liquids, unappetizing to both the eyes and the nose. He grumbled about the food, and I couldn’t blame him. It was the only meal compatible with his sensitivities, but even I found it difficult to defend.
 

Between bites, he looked at me and said, “You’re not rushing me or getting annoyed. It’s comforting.”
 

“I think I get it from my mom,” I whispered, recalling how often I’d seen her offer comfort to others. Her big, soft eyes, genuine smile, and gentle taps on the knee have an unmatched ability to put people at ease. Even now, I unconsciously mimic her, tapping friends’ knees during conversations when they seem in need of comfort. 
 

Every person I meet, every experience I’ve had, leaves behind a star — a fragment of light I carry with me. Isabel’s chords are stitched into my fingertips. My mother’s compassion lingers in my hands. My dad’s stories of lessons from his youth follow me around as I walk to and from the bus stop, quiet reminders of resilience and curiosity. All of them shine as stars in my pocket, each one illuminating a part of who I am.
 

Not all stars carry meaning, though. I once walked on my toes as a child, maybe inspired by some stray cat I watched for too long. 
 

Perhaps not every star needs a story.