As we assemble our star in the heavens
with every good deed, the smallest
bits of kindness deposited like seeds

along the paths of others, I find
myself considering how I might
furnish that star before I get there,

what color I’d like it to be,
where the sofa might go. I look
into the night sky, guessing

in which neighborhood my star
might live (I love the idea of
Alpha Centauri—closest to

our Milky Way) and toss questions
out to the twinkle twinkle:
how I wonder what you are

and how my essence,
lacking a body, will get there.
Should I plan on redecorating,

or will it matter if my star
resembles the sun I’ve grown up
under—a blazing ball of light

and energy that will not require
paint or wallpaper? I’m guessing
it won’t have rooms or a garden.

But I hope to start the conversation
with my star brightening its
corner of a galaxy:

How did you come to be born
and become your fiery self? Are
you expecting whatever’s left

of me? Will there be a welcome
party? Balloons? Might this be
where my companion spirits

have taken up residence?
Or perhaps you’ll pull me
into your embrace, tuck me

into your orbit as a little
exoplanet where I’ll reflect
your brilliance and shine

it over kabillions of miles
through the darkest space,
back to this little blue marble

where I and so many others
that we think of as humans—
everyone we’ve ever known

and loved—have called home.