"Our love—when we stagger—lies down inside us. . . " ~ Brenda Hillman You, too, turn a thing around and around in your mind, as if doing so could make a question plainer, a problem easier to solve or shelve. What is twenty-five percent of the largest amount you can think of to pay the taxman? What is the number of years on average when you didn't have to ransom lives you brought into the world, after sending them off with cheers and confetti? Where are those pockets in the curved universe deep enough to slow time, shallow enough to snap back after a massive body moves into another phase of its orbit? You've always had trouble trying to understand the idea of infinity— that dream of time as a net stretched so far in all directions, it ceases to be time. But orbits made by bodies and their mass move differently, at different speeds— some slower than others, some faster. At any given time, the moment you look at so longingly is no longer even what you imagine, the same way the earth always seems to be catching up, pulled toward the last place it thought was occupied by the sun.
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