Small Constellations

I keep my life in pocket-sized moments— a receipt with a coffee ring halo, a key that knows the shape of home, a song that finds me in the wrong aisle. The day is loud with ordinary thunder: notifications, buses, small talk rain. Still, you can feel it if you stand still— how light keeps trying to become a blessing. Somewhere, a window catches late sun and turns a sink full of dishes into gold. Somewhere, a stranger holds a door like the world is worth being gentle to. And when the night finally unhooks its coat, I look up at what I can’t control— the patient glitter of distance, the quiet math of maybes. I’m learning this: we don’t need a sky full of miracles, only enough bright points to spell our names back to us.