SPACE

Before Hubble, we didn’t know whether or not black holes existed in nature. Now we know they are at the heart of every known galaxy. We didn’t know other planets existed, and now we know they litter the universe, dripping with carbon and water.  Because of Hubble, we know the age of the universe: 13.8 billion years.

Thank you Hubble. Happy twenty-fourth birthday to you. Now we don’t have the money to send people out to fix you anymore, and maybe you're too far away to reach anyway, and so off you go, alone.

I grew up on lush, tree-lined Twelfth Street northwest in Canton, Ohio. Just up the hill from an elegant and mysterious park established in the gilded age. My neighborhood was borderline lousy—I was not allowed to go south of Tenth Street. But the century-old maples made us feel safe. Early memories, and middle memories streamed throughout my childhood are grounded by the oceanic whispers of the patient maples and their cool shadows twitching with sunlight on the sidewalks. The trees breathed through long hours, long years.

Canton is the second most dangerous small city in the United States. My father told me this week that the telephone company didn’t want to maintain the trees anymore, so they cut down all the trees on my old street. I don’t know how that worked exactly, cutting down trees in private yards, but they did, and my dad said it looks desolate, barren.

I can never show my daughter where I grew up because I grew up under those trees. Living, pulsing, patient trees. Where are they now?

What about the squirrels and birds who lived in those trees? And the people behind the windows? Children and old people and caretakers who couldn't stop the slaughter of the trees?

My parents don’t live on that street anymore. They live out in the country, in the woods. It’s a secret, where they live.

I’m never outside in dreams, always in houses, moving through rooms. I’m never in Outer Space—just Art Deco elevators, unknown eaves, dripping basements.