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Back Little Universes Save as PDF
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

“You won’t want to thank me when you hear we have a curfew.” I groan, and she cackles as she heads toward the door. “I have to check on my curry. You want to come down or do you want to soak this in before the guys get here?”

“I want to soak a bit,” I say.

When Jo leaves, I lie in a patch of sunlight on the hardwood floor and look at the little tattoo on my right ankle, sitting in the same spot where Mom’s Om was. Mine is one of Yoko’s drawings from Acorn, a beautiful dot-art fly for her poem “Life Piece VII.”

A promise. To myself. To my dead.

To dream of flying, to trust that I won’t fall. I whisper the last line of the fly’s poem, out loud: “Try to remember the feeling when you are awake.”

“I remember,” I say. “I remember.”

The scent of roses and seawater hits me, and I turn my head. Mom is lying next to me, in corpse pose. Her lips are turned up in a smile, eyes closed.

That Death card I’ve been getting all year? It just means the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

I’m not afraid to die. But I’m not afraid to live, either.

“This is the last time,” I say to her, “isn’t it?”

Her palms are turned up to the sky, and her fingers twitch the tiniest bit. I reach out and hold my mom’s hand.

Just like when I was a little girl, we walk home together.

Epilogue

Mae

ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

Earth Date: 29 August

Earth Time (MYT): 18:06

It is the one-year anniversary of the wave.

The beach my parents died on is littered not with bodies or debris, but with white roses. Hundreds and hundreds of white roses.

For so long, it felt like Nah and I were the only ones who’d lost people in the wave. But here, now, surrounded by women and men and children from all over the planet who are crying, but also smiling and laughing and remembering, I realize we are not alone. Not one little bit.

This grief, it is collective.

This loss, it is the world’s.

It is so beautiful here. I can see why Mom wanted to lie on this beach, walk in this sand, put her toes in this warm water. This gentle water, a sleeping giant. Even though a part of me knew better, I thought I would hate it. This ocean that took them.

But you can’t be angry at water.

And I don’t believe in God.

So there is no one to be angry with.

That’s nice.

Nah carves the words in the sand with a piece of driftwood. When she’s done, I stand beside her and slip my hand into hers.