Folder of Stars

For One Who Folded Stars

You left a white box no larger than my palm,
packed tight with red and white paper stars.
One carried a tiny bell tied to a string;
others hid your writing, tipped with a stroke of red ink.
I opened two, maybe three,
and sat speechless, putting them back like quiet secrets.

You could slip into a crowded room without a word—
shy, hiding an insecurity behind a quiet posture,
until the air caught you
and your laugh broke out as loud as mine.
And when your eyes filled over nothing at all,
you would whisper an apology for feeling so much.

Yet when you chose a thing, you threw your whole weight behind it—
mastering hard German verbs, new steps on the dance floor,
or the crisp, exact folds of paper.
Driven by a quiet hunger,
you gathered new worlds wherever you went,
leaving footprints in distant places
but leaving your heart’s work here, in my hands.

And in the soft remembering,
that drive and tender courage glow again.
The stars you folded
still open themselves — in the heart of the one
who carries your light.