She’s tidying the grandkids’ room shifting the red Lego box cleaning up the constellations of racing cars, glitter, hankies lifting the scruffy teddies back onto pillows, making room for the singularity of birth. There’s a black hole somewhere here – she wonders if it relates to the misshapen trousers she once tried to knit in lime-green wool for the legs of her now-lost golliwog. Even in plain there were too many dropped stitches a reluctance to follow through on string theory. She’s still not entirely sure of the difference between a quark and a quasar or whether it’s worth keeping the odd socks in case the others come back in a month or a light year. She asks herself whether four dimensions are enough to fit the curtain-less window that turns tree and sky into a painting, the milk-crates of toys from three generations, a boy’s scrumpled drawing of a possible future – Granny wearing the Star-wars watch he wants for his birthday. Is it true, she asks that all of this can be neatly stacked in the curvature of space time – portents from sixty years ago pigeonholed next to the memories of an unborn life, hurtling towards her from the Andromeda galaxy?
Feature image by Stephen Rahn