More than Space

Teacher sat us in a semi-circle in the playground’s backfield, near a chain link fence, her back against the flexing chains, a hay field, a street and a red gas station behind her. You could hear the passing cars.

We looked toward that border from the brown grass, all of us children in children’s ways: eyes peeled, praying for the playground, furrowed brows figuring out strange things. Low to the level ground but growing.

In us were future corporate lawyers, professional quarterbacks, burnouts, clowns, cross-country cyclists, mothers and fathers and lonely bus riders. Beards, perfume, teeth whitener.

Teacher said, “Think of space. What do you think? What is there more of out there? Stuff, which is matter, or simply empty space? Everyone who thinks it’s mostly empty stay seated, and everyone who thinks there’s more stuff in space than space sit over there.” She pointed to a distant spot on the lawn.

I thought of space. All the things in it. All the things that could be in it. Where it ends. If we could gather it together, maybe we’d find there’s more of the hard stuff, planets, stars, unseen somethings, more than space in space. The empty part is small compared.

I was the only one who moved. I moved and sat cross-legged and waited for the teacher’s revelation. “So only one then?” she said loud. “Of course there is more space in space than things. That’s why it’s called ‘space.’ ” Some kids laughed as if they’d already figured that out.

That’s when Tim T stood up and joined me on my side. Tim T and me liked to look up dirty words in the Spanish dictionary. We liked to spit for distance. Joke around.

“Do you still think there’s more stuff than space?” she asked.

“Maybe somewhere. Far away.”

“Wrong. You don’t understand the concept, I think.”

I began to sweat. “Come join us,” she said. I felt hotly sick. The sun held a magnifying glass to me and stared, lighting the grass into flames, lighting the hay, the gas tanks across the street exploding in the heat. Everything was burning wet. I remembered Icarus, his melting wings.

Me and Tim T moved back. I picked at the grass, paying no attention, scalding. Tim T made a joke.

I thought of people somewhere soaring around like Icarus. But not falling. Flying. Climbing out into space.