“Look at the sky, mi hija. You see all the stars?” Of course I saw them. Only a blind man could miss them.

“Now close your eyes.” I did as I was told.

“You see all your thoughts?” Well, I didn’t exactly “see” my thoughts, but I could hear them, feel them racing, jumping from subject to subject: the wetness of my hair, the unhung laundry, the abandoned garden, the promises of tomorrow, the burdens of the past, that phone call I was sure I would make that night.

“Aterrizate, mi hija (land yourself, my daughter), don’t get too lost in that big head of yours.”

My attention fixated again on the endless night sky. “Pick a star,” they said.

I picked a twinkling spot in the sky in the right corner of my vision.

“Now.” A pause. Chirping tree frogs filled our seeming silence.

“For every new thought you have, pick a new star.” I followed my instructions. Only minutes later, and I had been all over the galaxy.

“So,” the voice said, “It’s time to ask yourself. And I mean REALLY ask yourself.”

“Out of all the stars that brighten the night sky, how many does one girl need?”

“Ni una (not even one),” whispered the voice.

“Ninguna (not even one),” whispered the sky.

“Just one!” shouted my lips.

Just one.

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