“Mama, why didn’t you feed me 210 pieces of sun?”

We are at the gas station. This question comes mere moments after her astute observation that I washed all the bird poop off her window.

“Because you are my daughter,” I said. “You are a real girl and not a star, and I know you need to eat food.”

“Mama, something only I and all the goddesses of the world know is that we are all stars. Everything is made of stars. Even people. Even food.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. Even the planets are all made of stars. Actually, some of the planets that go around the sun and the moon and the earth are made of dirt. But even that dirt is made of stars. That is actually true.”

It is actually. True.

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