I’m not needed for the Sun to rise nor for the birds to chirp their generous “good mornings” to one another. Branches from gargantuan oak trees would still dance to the soothing songs whistled by the wind and the withered autumn leaves would continue to decorate the familiar suburban streets, in shades of brilliant browns and outstanding oranges. Nevertheless, the Sun would coat the sky with her most lavish pink and purple paints as she anticipates her daily fall. Without me, dozens of shining stars would still sprinkle the night sky, twinkling down on those who gaze upon them. My insignificance is that of a single wilting daisy in a field of vivacious flowers or the minor crack in a sidewalk full of greater fractures. But in my absence, who would follow the Sun on her journey through the morning sky? The gallery displaying her artwork would remain vacant, leaving her empty. I memorize the choreography created by the trees, I desire the rhythm they possess. And for dessert, who would eat up the stars sprinkled above? Remembering the strength of that sidewalk and the innocence of the dying daisy is the definition of my existence.