More on this book
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Then I did what anyone would do in a fit of utter devastation. I began to destroy the curtains.
was used to being expansive and limitless; now I was confined to this tiny body, unable to move beyond Earth. More importantly, I couldn’t sense the hive all around me. At home, loneliness does not exist. And I never realized how comforting that community was, until I felt the terrible loss of it. Even the shrill songs of the Lalarians would’ve been welcome. Earth was lonely—and tiring.
A famous human once wrote that “the soul travels,” that the universe is just a “road for traveling souls.” I couldn’t have explained it any better myself, except maybe to add this: Other travelers make the journey worthwhile.
You may have heard of this particular phrase: that someone is “going through a lot.” As if “a lot” is a direction, something to pass over, like wading through water.
“You have to watch out for the gators,” she said, and it struck me that life on Earth could look extremely alien, with large teeth and green scales. And humans were scared of extraterrestrials? Of us?
Person-to-person interaction depends on knowing when to smile. It’s about waiting until the exact right moment and unleashing the appropriate grin. There are so many variables. Do you smile with or without teeth? How much should your lips stretch? And how do you recover, if you get it wrong?
But I found it strange—the idea that there is a “right” kind of clothing. So you want to visit the beach in overalls? Or a turtleneck? Or a pair of green trousers with a matching scarf? What does it matter? How could it possibly impact anyone else?
You are a perfectly acceptable version of a human, exactly as you are.
Perhaps this is as close as humans will come to infinity: gazing out at the sea, toes in the water, feeling a part of something huge, yet being very, very small themselves.
He was at home here—in this town, in this ocean—and I wondered if I would ever have that much comfort anywhere. If I could give myself up entirely to a landscape and a moment and a feeling.
Here is what I’ve learned about the art of sandwich making. It is about more than shoving slices of cheese onto bread. It’s about the sights and the sounds of the kitchen: the refrigerator humming, the curtains swishing with wind. It’s about who you make the sandwich with—and the thought of enjoying it together.
From the back seat, I watched her—and something in me said, I’ve known you forever. Not just an earthly forever, but a deep sort of always, like I’d met her before even saying hello. There is an expression on this planet, that someone is an old soul. That they are wise beyond their years. I can tell you, without hesitation: this describes Olive perfectly. She may be only eleven, but her soul has lived and lived.
Eventually, his feet kicked through the sand, and he came to stand by my side. “You know,” he said, “Olive told me that this dinner was for you. When you find someone who loves you like that, Leonard, you never let them go.”
They must be terrified, I thought. They must be overwhelmed, like I was, at the beauty and newness of it all. Indeed, it occurred to me as I watched them—as they trailed inch by inch across the beach—that they were Earth. That they were beauty and terror, wonder and danger. Was it better to live this way? To really live, to experience everything, the good and the bad?
How much would I remember, really? Because memories are nothing, I realized, without a feeling attached.
There was something about a road trip, something uniquely alive. I couldn’t quite put my paw on it—why I felt so free, deep down—but suddenly we were cruising along a flat track of highway, and everything was humming: the air-conditioning, the tires, Norma. Before we’d even left Turtle Beach, Q had put Johnny Cash on the radio, and now Norma was mumbling along.
But we were laughing. We were laughing under a moonlit sky. And in that moment, it was difficult to imagine anyone in the universe but us.
I believe this is a thing that humans do: Trying to speak words into existence. Trying to change what is very clearly in front of them.
Apparently, if you have to recalibrate your whole way of thinking, who better to do it for than a granddaughter?
I have been thinking lately about the idea of soul mates—identifying your soul in another. How we may not be made of the same materials, of fur and air, but we can recognize each other across a crowded room. When we catch each other’s glance, our souls will say, Yes, I know you, and Yes, this feels like home. I understand what it feels like now, to know a place. To give yourself up to gravity. To rescue someone—just as much as they rescue you.
You should hear this, if you’re still listening. I don’t understand everything about being human, but I do know a great deal about the soul: how it travels and travels, until it finds someone who feels like home. I’m home now. I’m never letting go.
Olive places the umbrella handle into my paw, helping me grasp it. “Hold on tight,” she says—and to all of it, to every moment, I do.
