The Gravity of Us

by Phil Stamper

I have lived through figurative hell, and my reward? Arriving in literal hell. Clear Lake, Texas, at ninety-two degrees.

“The only feedback I ever hear is that he thinks you’re super cute.”

“If you want to kiss me, kiss me because you like me. Not because you think it’ll make me happy.” “But I—” “You can’t just kiss away all the bad feelings I have. You can’t kiss me and make me better. I think you know that, but … I have to say it.”

“Sorry if I made things weird,” he says. “I’m not usually so upfront about my, um, depression.”

I want him to know the improbability of two people meeting like this. That it’s astounding, no matter how inconsequential it is. Sure, strangers meet all the time. It’s the universe’s way to say we don’t matter. None of this matters.

“But it gave us a good name for the project. Orpheus, son of Apollo. A story about trust, and moving forward. It’s clever, I think.”

It’s all somewhat adorable, and this must be what parents feel like taking their anxious and/or excited children to their first day of school.

Between the boy in my bed and the peace in the house, maybe this astronaut thing was exactly what our family needed.

“Don’t aim to fix people. Fixing seems so permanent, so absolute. Like there’s no room for error. Aim to make things better.

“I need you to support me now. I need you to be okay with how I am now, and not think of me as someone who is broken.”

I, Calvin Lewis Jr., have no idea what is coming next. And I couldn’t be happier.

People aren’t broken, and therapists couldn’t fix them if they were. But maybe someone can make things a little better, or help them be a little happier.

“I don’t think they can kick me out. Benefit of being an Astrokid on launch day is everyone treats you like you’re super fragile.”

I bring Leon’s hand to my lips and give him a light kiss. And we enter a new era.