Two Falling Stars and a Chocolate Ice Cream | by Crimo Trizente | Aug, 2025

The wind tasted of summer night salt, and the sound of the waves felt like the slow breathing of the world. It was the night of San Lorenzo, and I had gone to the beach with my son, hoping to see the shooting stars.

But the sky was a disappointment. Clear, yes, but stingy with its wonders. Very few stars peeked out from that black sea, and none decided to trace their luminous path. I could feel my son’s disappointment, and with my usual knack for “salvaging the evening,” I decided to intervene. “Come on,” I said to him, “let’s go get a chocolate ice cream. What do you say?”

We came back to the beach, the cone almost melting in our hands. I offered it to him, but he was back there again, his eyes glued to the sky. “Don’t worry, it’s not the right night,” I tried to reassure him, but his attention was so complete that he didn’t hear me. I started eating it alone, halfway between resignation and a hint of frustration.

Then, it happened. A flash of light. A brief but intense streak crossed the sky. My son stiffened, an expression of pure wonder painted on his face. He had seen the first shooting star. And a few seconds later, another one. In that moment, I understood that magic isn’t something you force; it’s something you wait for. He didn’t tell me the wishes he’d made, but the light in his eyes was enough for me.

Next to us, another child was staring at his phone, his face lit up by the screen’s glow. “What are you doing? Want to play?” my son invited, without ever looking up. I took the liberty of pointing out how much more interesting the sky was than that device, but he didn’t agree. For him, the world was inside that screen.

I realized that today’s need is this: to get dizzy with useless videos, to fill every single empty moment so as not to leave room for thought, for silence. I pointed this out to my son, who replied with disarming honesty: “Dad, it’s no use. These are just the times we live in.”

We went back home. He went to bed, and I’m sure that night he dreamed of stars. I, on the other hand, felt heavier. Gloomy. It was a sad thought, but I couldn’t shake it off. It seemed to me that, in some way, we had all lost the need to dream. And maybe, the very ability to do so.