Singularity.
I jump from the moving bus, eager to get home. Show the trophy to my mother.
The digital clock glimmers in the dark. It's 3:05 AM and its hot. My mother puts cold wipes on my forehead. Father's pacing the room restlessly.
It's foggy. Pale sunlight is streaming through, reflecting off of the dust particles, turning them to glittery diamond dust. I see her standing with her friends, plucking the lily, tucking it behind her ear.
I am crouched in my room. Pale moonlight filtering in through the curtains that are softly shifting in the night breeze. I can see my shadow. Its big. Bigger than I am. Than I ever was. Noises in the background. They are fighting again. I am eight.
Organ music plays. We are together. I turn to her as the carousel starts spinning. She laughs, looking at me, her hair whipping across her face.
Led Zep's blaring in the background. We're cutting lines on the tiny coffee table. It doesn't seem like it has been used for coffee anytime soon. Ever. A whiff. Stairway to heaven.
They are calling out my name. I step onto the stage, dressed in my graduation cape. Father and Mother are seated in the crowd. Not together.
They are rioting on the streets. We are. I fling a stone with all my might. A cop's down. They fire. There's panic- a stampede. I am turning to look back as I run. A streak of blood hits me in the face, blinding me momentarily. Someone's fallen.
We're at the river bank, dipping our feet lightly in the water. I am turning to kiss her. We are making love. On the river bank, under the stars.
The doctor's handing over the babe to me. A precious life, left in callous arms. She is dying. The sheets are bloody; her breathing, shallow.
She walked today. Stumbling and struggling. Her eyes turned upwards as if to seek my approval. Her eyes. Just like her mother's. We visit her grave every year and adorn it with lilies.
Her first day at school. Trembling, eyes brimming with tears. Lips, a near pout. Clutching with all her might her brand new pink school bag. The teacher lovingly takes her hand. I get a teary wave.
She is squealing. The object of her affection a few feet away. We are at the concert of her favorite pop star. Its pink and glitter everywhere. I am shaking my head to get rid of the confetti, catching the eye of the lady nearby, also there with her daughter. We shrug. Kids!
Twelve. That's how old she is. Twelve. She is crossing the road, waving to her friends on the other side. A few yards away, the car is screeching towards the intersection. It's speeding. My baby girl isn't.
Singularity. A black hole in the Extropian worldview whose gravity is so intense that no light can be shed on what lies beyond it.
She likes lilies. Just like her mother.
Singularity. Sometimes I think it's my heart.
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