I remember asking my dad, “How many stars are in the sky,” and he said something like, “Way too many to count.” But I’ve counted. And after recounting and recounting and scribbling in my notebook under my fathers flashlight I can tell you that there is indeed a number.
And to this day I prefer reading the stars over anything. They’re the oldest book ever written. Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn and the cosmos the paint of Picasso. Each spec is its own character each pair a set of eyes where I can lose myself in their gaze. A celestial connect the dots where I collect the pictures and pick out my favorite spots.
But when my son is old enough to ask, “How many stars are in the sky?” I’ll just hand him a notebook and tell him to read what he sees.