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Back Little Universes
Chapters (63)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Part 1
  6. Mae
  7. Hannah
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. Part 2
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. Part 3
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. Epilogue
  59. Mental Health Resources
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  62. About the Author
  63. Newsletter Sign-up

To: Commander Winters

From: Mission Specialist Tamura

The specimen in this little bag fell to Earth around 2,200 BC (the geophysicist in me must inform you that this date was determined via carbon dating of the charred wood fragments taken from beneath the meteorite itself). This bit of the cosmos was discovered in a field called Campo Del Cielo—since you are taking Russian and not Spanish, I’ll translate for you, Comrade: Field of the Sky. This bit of outer space you’re holding in your hand (in your palm, where you also hold a certain someone across the Charles River), hit the atmosphere of our little blue dot after traveling 150,000 miles per hour.

Someday you will do the same.

You will go to space, solve mysteries, do somersaults in zero gravity, see sixteen sunsets and sunrises a day. And then, when you’re ready, you will get in a little capsule and—just like this meteorite—hurtle through a blaze of fire before landing on Earth. From so far away, you will come back. I know it.

And I’ll be waiting to welcome you home.

For Science—

Ben

Maybe Nah was right. God is a feeling. This feeling. Of empty and whole at the same time. Of holding on while letting go. Because that’s what Ben did—he let go of me, but he never stopped holding on. If there were a wave and we were in it, I bet that water couldn’t ever break us apart, not really.

Because it didn’t break any of us apart. I can let go of my parents—of their selves, and my idea of who they were and who we were as a family—but I can still hold on, too.

Up to sixty percent of the adult human body is water. Water can’t break itself. So the wave couldn’t break my family because we are made of the same stuff as the wave. WE ARE THE WAVE.

I close my eyes and lie down, the meteorite clutched to my chest, pressing against the hole. Holding the universe in the palm of my hand.

I listen.

To the fire burning in the center of the globe.

To the laughter and talking and living noises of the people all around. Babies and children and adults. Life. Car horns honking and the faint sound of a guitar. The bell of a passing ice-cream vendor.

The sounds swirl around me, in me, through me, waves, the wave. All these atoms—this blanket I’m lying on, this air I breathe, this meteorite, this heart, this skin, these people, and these trees—none of it solid, all of it shifting and changing and moving, just atoms held together by dancing electrons.