Gratitude
You only ever talk about physics. Other kids at school only ever talk about nothing. I never quite mastered that art.
“Whatcha mean ‘OK?’ Could you show some sympathy?”
“Why are you smiling? It’s actually kinda sad”
“Stop nodding! You just never have an opinion, don’t you?”
Lena, Sasha, Katya, or Timur always say this before storming off. Yet, you always wait for me. Your ginger eyebrows jump up from behind the silly circular glass frame, your freckles dancing on your cheeks and around your wide-open mouth.
“Thanks for being here, despite quantum uncertainty!”
I don’t understand physics, so I find the world quite certain. You will certainly act surprised when you realize that you, me, and the streets we walk by neither disappeared nor changed in the slightest since yesterday. You will certainly walk me home.
You walk a bit ahead of me, trying to protect me from the feebly white mouth of the hospital building. I watch heavy, metal doors reluctantly swallow another victim under the patrol of dozens of half-sighted eyes – curtained windows, yellowed with time.
“Soon, humanity will completely subjugate the space!” you point out the cars stuck in traffic, distracting me from the monstrous building. “We will use wormhole tunnels to travel through the universe as if galaxies are nothing more than different subway stations…And no one will be late. Ever!” your dark-brown eyes reflect a rare ray of sunshine with a myriad of tiny, beaming explosions. For a moment I believe that one day, everyone will be fine.
The faded swings on a playground sing about the naïve, childish happiness with the rusty clang of metal beams. You test the limits of gravity, swinging as much as you can, reaching the highest point, jumping off the swings with an ecstatic scream, and falling down just to do it all over again.
“You are lighter than me, so you surely can defy gravity!”
I unclench my sweaty fingers at the highest point. For a moment, I become infinitely light and universally powerful. The bleak blue sky reveals numerous galaxies - Andromeda, Sombrero, and Tadpole with their tales and spirals, with massive black holes and star clusters, all lying at my hand, welcoming, waiting to be conquered. The next moment, a galaxy more massive than Milky Way forms first in my stomach, and then spreads to the rest of my body, almost pinning me to the dusty ground. You catch me before I have a chance to fall down.
We sit there for hours and the unexplored galaxies gently hug us, whispering their blessings through a light spring breeze. You never ask stupid questions, waiting until I decide to speak.
“It’s a shame you don’t wanna be a writer.”
“I will leave that to you” – your laughter explodes with thrills. You laugh the way my father does, the way all good people do.
I shuffle my school shoe on the ground, watching the cosmic dust wind up and settle on a patent leather toe. There is something else I need to tell you. I fill my lungs with the fragrance of newly blooming lilac flowers. I do not know any words to express that feeling. Perhaps, laughter is enough.
My mom is home a little earlier than always. Her head a little bit lower, her steps a little bit more hesitant.
“Your father died today in the hospital.”
I suddenly understand why the collapse of massive stars leads to the formation of an ultra-massive black hole. She clenches my shoulders with her slender, graveyard-cold fingers. She hugs me way longer than usual, but her body cannot obstruct the black hole inside of me. “I’m sorry” she whispers before the blackhole drugs her inside. It gobbles a pink, locked notebook with a handful of stories from my room, stacks of negligently thrown clothes on my parents’ sofa, and even the radio-controlled helicopter, which my father bought for my birthday. He hoped I would not find it in his closet. The black hole roams through the streets. The rows of houses as old as ours, the repulsive hospital, and the sickly yellow school building, all collapse with a relieved howl, tired of being accomplices in people’s misery.
Why didn’t you tell me that black holes do not consume smells? I can pretend not to see my mom and grandma sitting in the kitchen forcing shot after shot of the fiery liquid down their throats. I can pretend not to listen to the chime of glasses, which taps out the rhythm of a solemn conversation. Yet, the stale, sour smell of cheap alcohol has been following me for years. They drink vodka, champagne, or wine to celebrate the new year, the wedding, the childbirth. Then they write down “alcoholic liver disease” as a cause of death and drink again, to mourn the dead. I close the door, tuck myself in a heavy duvet, and allow the black hole to swallow me. The smell disappears until the next morning.
I do not want anyone to know. The next day everyone knows. I finally understand how to talk about nothing. Listen to the mandatory “I’m sorry” and “If you need anything I’m here for you” which Lena, Sasha, Katya, and even Timur, who I fought hated me, mumble, commanded by their parents. Lower my eyes, and say “Thank you” even though I am not grateful for anything. Don’t laugh, don’t cry, don’t make people uncomfortable. Just wait for it to be over. Just wait until they avoid me again, as my mere presence reminds them of the thing they would rather not think about.
Physics is indestructible. Maybe that’s why you like it so much. So, you walk me home like nothing happened. You say that time is nothing more than a fourth dimension. Some beings, greater than we are, travel through millennia as if they are nothing more than different subway stations. One day, when we conquer gravity, subjugate space, and wield the energy of the black holes, we will learn how to impose our will on time, too.
“No one ever truly dies.” you sit still on the swings today. “Every moment, every person… They exist forever, moving to a different spot on a fourth-dimension plane. Later, then we evolve into greater beings, we will be back here, back two days, two months, two years ago. And everything will be fine forever.”
You have the all-encompassing hug of my father. My black hole grapples with the constellations of massive stars – freckles on your cheeks, birthmarks on your arms, tiny fires in your eyes. Eventually it gives in, pacified by the smell of used library books. Your smell, the smell my father used to have two years ago, then everything was still fine.
I want to tell you something. Yet, as soon as you let me go, the ultra-massive black hole devours all the words I saved for you. It erupts with a growl, while I cry on your shoulder. As always, you will wait until I decide to speak.
Me and my mom moved. We got rid of his clothes, photos, and even the radio-controlled helicopter. Yet, the intoxicating smell never went away. It occupied my mother’s room and grew richer with the sweet taste of liqueur and the forbidding whisper of whiskey. That whisper lulled her to sleep every night, while I scribbled another story on the last pages of my physics textbook and fed it to my black hole. As soon as I turned eighteen, I left.
What a shame I never understood physics. If I did, we could apply for the same scholarships, get into the same university, stay in the same country, speak the same language, and walk home by the same road. Now there isn’t a single familiar constellation in the indifferent sky. I abandoned my old clothes, toys, and books. I hope I will never get attached to a temporary thing again. I hope I will never have to watch a temporary thing disappear again.
Humans did not end up conquering space. There are still thousands of kilometers of ocean water, coniferous forests, and barbed wire on the border control points separating us. Yet I can still meet you anytime I want. I turn off the lights and stare at the ceiling until it crumbles, revealing the familiar pattern of stars. The buzzing of the air conditioner gives way to the light spring breeze filled with the smell of lilac flowers. You sit on the everlasting swings, in the middle of Milky Way – the most beautiful of galaxies, as you used to say. Now I understand why time is just a dimension. Your freckles, eyebrows, and glasses are covered in cosmic dust, as you still wait for me to speak. I found the words I needed and buried them inside my ultra-massive black hole so that they never wear out. I am sure you will hear me here, in the realm outside of time. Thank you.