Re ativity

So, here it is. We are sitting on the edge of the earth, feet dangling, thinking to ourselves, will our lives ever be better than they are right at this moment? But the edge of the earth is relative, and feet lose feeling after extended suspension, and of life we know next to nothing.

“How far do you think it is from here to the ground?” Jasper grips tightly to the rain gutters and peers over the edge of the roof.

“Far,” I say, grabbing the neck of his shirt and yanking him back. “It’s a two-story house.”

“I bet I could jump. Bet it’s not as high as you think. And besides, the sandbox is still down there. I’d aim for that.”

I nod thoughtfully. “You could. But it depends. How important are your legs to you? Or your ability to walk?”

Jasper tilts his head to the side, as if he’s really thinking hard about his answer. “Mariah, would you still like me if I didn’t have legs?”

I flick his forehead. “Of course I would, dummy. Now would you please scoot back? I don’t think your parents would be too happy about spending the night before you move in a hospital.”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about that,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

I lay down on the roof, ignoring the way the shingles dig into my back. With my thumb and forefinger I make a tiny circle, hold it up to my left eye, and close my right. It’s a trick my dad taught me, a handmade telescope for pinpointing stars. But the clouds swallow the stars and I see nothing through my fingers. For tonight, though, it is perfect. Jasper always preferred cloud-watching to star-gazing. I do not remember a single day without Jasper in it. When we moved into our house ten years ago, he was outside his, right next door, three years old and riding a red tricycle with tassels and a bell. And after tomorrow he will be gone.

“Oh, by the way,” Jasper says, “I got you something.” He digs around in one of the pockets of his green cargo pants and pulls out a tiny, square-shaped book no bigger than a deck of cards.

I look at him. “I didn’t get you anything.” “So?” He says. “Just take it.” It is a book containing the names, origins, and photographs of every known constellation. We both know it is basically a useless gift because I already know everything there is to know about constellations.

“I know you already know all these, but it’s not just a book,” Jasper speaks quickly, sounds embarrassed. “Each page is actually a collectible card. You can tear them out and, I don’t know, hang them on your wall or something. I guess it’s pretty lame.”

I shove his shoulder then link my arm with his. “It’s great.”

“Mom said we might come back for Christmas,” he says. “That’s only four months from now.” “Good. That’s good.” After awhile, I say, “You know, maybe the ground isn’t so far away after all.” I look down over the roof, nod. I hope he understands. “I think you’d be okay.”

Jasper beams. “Hey, you know what they say. ‘What goes up.’”

And then he jumps.

31 Short Story