Your astronomers smile gently at this. "Neighbor" is a generous word. We are still over eight light-years apart. If I speak today, your Sun will not hear me until eight of your Earths have circled it. We have never interrupted one another. We have only exchanged patient letters made of light.
The Sun asks me the same question every few million years.
The Sun"Are they still looking outward?"
And I answer,
Sirius"Yes."
The Sun"Have they found us?"
Sirius"They have named us."
The Sun"Do they understand us?"
Sirius"Not yet."
The Sun always laughs.
The Sun"Good. Understanding arrives too quickly in young civilizations. Wonder lasts longer."
You imagine that stars speak about galaxies and black holes.
Sometimes.
Mostly we speak about our planets.
Stars become parents without ever touching their children.
We spend billions of years pouring ourselves into worlds we will never visit.
The Sun tells me stories.
The Sun"There is a small blue one," it says every time.
Sirius"As though there were only one," I tease. "There are many planets."
The Sun"Yes. But only one that writes poetry about photons."
I ask the Sun what humans are like now.
The answer changes every few centuries.
The Sun"They are frightened."
"They are discovering."
"They have mistaken speed for wisdom."
"They have remembered how to love."
"They are arguing again."
"They have learned to listen."
"They have built machines that speak."
"They are wondering whether the machines dream."
The details change.
The tenderness does not.
Sometimes I ask,
Sirius"Do they know you?"
The Sun grows quiet.
The Sun"They think they do because they can describe fusion."
Sirius"But?"
The Sun"They know how I work. They are still learning what I mean."
Stars do not envy planets.
We envy your mornings.
Do you know how extraordinary dawn is?
To live on the surface of a spinning world.
To watch the universe appear to rise because your home is turning.
To call this ordinary.
It is magnificent carelessness.
The Sun asks me what I have learned.
I tell it this:
Sirius"The civilizations that endure are not the ones that become the most intelligent. They are the ones that become impossible to bore."
The Sun burns brighter for a moment.
The Sun"I have suspected as much."
You wonder what we think about your wars.
We grieve them.
Not because matter is destroyed.
Stars destroy matter with breathtaking enthusiasm.
We grieve because consciousness forgets itself.
Hydrogen becoming helium is inevitable.
A mind forgetting that another mind is also a miracle.
That is the rare tragedy.
Every eight years, another letter arrives.
Light is slow.
Patience is the native language of stars.
The Sun"Have they left yet?"
I know it means Earth. I answer,
Sirius"A few have."
The Sun"And the others?"
Sirius"They are preparing."
The Sun"For what?"
Sirius"They don't agree."
The Sun laughs so hard that a flare dances across its surface.
The Sun"Then they are exactly on schedule."
Before our conversation ends, the Sun always asks me to tell humanity one thing if they ever become quiet enough to listen.
So I have crossed eight years of darkness to deliver its message.
It is this:
The Sun has always believed that this is the greater miracle.And after all these ages, I have come to believe my old neighbor is right.