A Scattered Thought.

When my kids ask me where they came from, I'll remind them that they are made of stars. Before they fall into their serene slumber, they'll hear stories of how parts of them were cherry-picked from supernovas & neutrino speckled gasses; that their life began in meticulous fusions similar to the creations of heavenly bodies resting higher than the cookie jars on our shelves.

I will never let them feel insignificant.

I'd like to believe that our hands are made of recycled planets. Perhaps there were other life forms inhibiting those stars before their cruel explosions. Having alien substances interlaced in our genome would explain quite a number of things.
If this were true, maybe you'd find me a little less odd. Maybe the thought of holding my hand will finally cross your mind.