The Jasmine That Learned to Count the Stars

In Castellammare, on a balcony that smelled of jasmine and sea wind, Marta liked to count things.

She counted the boats returning to the harbour, the swallows above the roofs, the blue tiles around the flowerpots. But the stars were impossible. They appeared one at a time, then ten at once, then hid behind the soft clouds.

“I will never count them all,” she said.

The jasmine climbing the railing rustled.

“Perhaps you should not count them all. Perhaps you should meet them.”

Marta looked closer. One closed jasmine bud trembled.

A star appeared in the sky.

The bud opened.

Marta held her breath. The flower was small and white, and its perfume became stronger as the star brightened.

Another star appeared. Another flower opened.

Marta ran to get her notebook, but the jasmine stopped her with a leaf.

“Not too fast. If you hurry, you count numbers. If you slow down, you count wonders.”

So Marta sat on the balcony with her elbows on the cool stone. She did not try to win against the sky. She waited. Star, flower, breath. Star, flower, breath.

Her grandmother came out with a glass of water and sat beside her.

“How many are there?”

“I don’t know,” said Marta. “But I know the first one smelled of evening, the second one opened near the blue pot, and the third one looked like it was shy.”

Grandmother smiled.

That night Marta did write in her notebook, but not only numbers. She wrote: one patient star, one brave flower, one silence that smells sweet.

The jasmine continued to open slowly, without showing off.

And Marta understood that not everything beautiful must be captured exactly. Some things become larger when we leave them room to appear.