The scent of roasted almonds pierces the air engulfing dinner with a feeling of joy this house hasn’t felt since the accident. I tell them not to worry. But they stare at me like something is missing. Grandma said it best: “You’re a dancer of the sky,” and this was before the car hit us on Rue de Bretagne. So yeah, Grandma always knew. I miss her.

Dad’s constant pacing is unnerving and Mom wobbles in high heels in the kitchen like a marionette. I come to the window to escape.

Here, framed like a classic piece of art, I travel like Grandma had suggested. I am not a body; I am a star, like my name: Estrella. I soar above these thunderous clouds and see Paris below like a postcard I would pick at St. Ouen’s Market. I traverse the blackness of the stratosphere and plunge into Earth. I leave a trail of fire. Je suis une étoile filante, Grandma, a shooting star, with you. Here in this body whose bones are still shaken by the accident, I join you, I feel you in the rain over the Paris sky.