The patron saints of the wayward traveler looked to you to guide their way, ancestors of a culture steeped in respect for you. You lit their path through the inky night.
You are the original roadmap. Connecting the dots, a finger traces a path through your abyss.
You are a blanket that expands me rather than constricts me. Beneath your cool breeze I am infinitely small, and yet I am the whole universe. My worries subside under your ancient eye.
Careful, you warn. Even we do not last forever.
And when you do burn out, your light remains. You leave the kind of mark I dream of — stoking souls long, long after you are gone. You show me that even the strongest, most concrete fixtures of life are impermanent. You show me that while I am forever small, I am never alone.
You are the wisest of them all. You listen to my silent fears and aspirations as I lay below you on the cold, damp earth, grass tickling at the tips of my ears. You are imprinted as a patchwork into some of my most cherished memories.
And when I am apart, I look up at you, letting your cool light bathe my face and I know that no matter how far, this same light touches the faces of those that I hold dear.
You are not warm and coddling, but rather incite the strength and passion within us to light up our own darkness, to fight our own battles. You do not champion us, but you quietly believe in us.
A sisterhood of strength, bright enough to light up the darkest of nights, you ease the fear of all. Some connected, some apart, you shine your brightest for all, never discriminating. And even when we cannot see you, when you are hidden and we feel alone, you shine still, promising us that we will see the light once more.
That is strength. To stand beside one another, solid and proud, and shine your light no matter who sees. You guide my way through the darkness. You show me how to find my own way through the darkness. And when I lose my way, all I need do is look up, and you are there to remind me that I too am made of stardust.