Milo’s grandmother had a blue checked apron.
In the right pocket she always kept something: a handkerchief, a clothespin, a mint sweet, a piece of string. Milo said that pocket was a secret room.
One evening, while Grandmother was making lemon biscuits, something fell from the sky through the open window.
Plink.
It landed right in the apron pocket.
Milo ran to look.
Inside there was a very small star, dusted with flour.
“Grandma! You have a star in your pocket.”
Grandmother looked and did not become upset. “Then we must treat it gently. Stars are frightened in noisy kitchens.”
The star shone only a little. Perhaps it had fallen because it was tired.
Grandmother did not put it in a box. She did not show it to everyone. She went on making biscuits, but more slowly. Every gesture near the star became luminous: pouring sugar, grating lemon peel, covering the dough with a cloth.
Milo noticed something: the star shone more when Grandmother did something for someone.
When she put aside a biscuit for the elderly neighbour, the star flashed.
When she cleared the table to make room for Milo’s drawing, it shone again.
When she adjusted the collar of his pyjamas without saying anything, the pocket lit up like a little lantern.
“Does the star like presents?” asked Milo.
“Perhaps it likes affection,” said Grandmother. “The kind that does not need to make noise.”
Before going to sleep, Milo wanted to keep the star.
Grandmother shook her head. “You do not hold on to a tired star. You give it warmth, then you let it return.”
They opened the window. Grandmother took the star with a clean teaspoon and placed it on the sill.
Milo sent it a kiss.
The star rose slowly into the sky.
The next day the apron pocket was empty. Or almost. Inside there was a luminous grain.
From then on, Milo looked differently at Grandmother’s gestures: the glass of water near the bed, the blanket pulled up, the most golden biscuit left on the plate.
They were little stars too.
Only they lived in hands.