Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

dark matter. The fragile balance depends on things we'll never be able to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Life itself depends on them. What's real? What isn't real? Maybe those aren't the right questions to be asking. What does life depend on?
    I wish I had made things for life to depend on.
    What if you never stop inventing?
    Maybe you're not inventing at all.
    I'm being called in for breakfast, so I'll have to end this letter here. There's more I want to tell you, and more I want to hear from you. It's a shame we live on different continents. One shame of many.
    It's so beautiful at this hour. The sun is low, the shadows are long, the air is cold and clean. You won't be awake for another five hours, but I can't help feeling that we're sharing this clear and beautiful morning.
    Your friend,
    Stephen Hawking

MY FEELINGS
    A knocking woke me up in the middle of the night.
    I had been dreaming about where I came from.
    I put on my robe and went to the door.
    Who could it be? Why didn't the doorman ring up? A neighbor?
    But why?
    More knocking. I looked through the peephole. It was your grandfather.
    Come in. Where were you? Are you OK?
    The bottoms of his pants were covered in dirt.
    Are you OK?
    He nodded.
    Come in. Let me clean you off. What happened?
    He shrugged his shoulders.
    Did someone hurt you?
    He showed me his right hand.
    Are you hurt?
    We went to the kitchen table and sat down. Next to each other. The windows were black. He put his hands on his knees.
    I slid closer to him until our sides touched. I put my head on his shoulder. I wanted as much of us to touch as possible.
    I told him, You have to tell me what happened for me to be able to help.
    He took a pen from his shirt pocket but there was nothing to write on.
    I gave him my open hand.
    He wrote, I want to get you some magazines.
    In my dream, all of the collapsed ceilings re-formed above us. The fire went back into the bombs, which rose up and into the bellies of planes whose propellers turned backward, like the second hands of the clocks across Dresden, only faster.
    I wanted to slap him with his words.
    I wanted to shout, It isn't fair, and bang my fists against the table like a child.
    Anything special? he asked on my arm.
    Everything special, I said.
    Art magazines?
    Yes.
    Nature magazines?
    Yes.
    Politics?
    Yes.
    Celebrities?
    Yes.
    I told him to bring a suitcase so he could come back with one of everything.
    I wanted him to be able to take his things with him.
    In my dream, spring came after summer, came after fall, came after winter, came after spring.
    I made him breakfast. I tried to make it delicious. I wanted him to have good memories, so that maybe he would come back again one day.
    Or at least miss me.
    I wiped the rim of the plate before I gave it to him. I spread his napkin on his lap. He didn't say anything.
    When the time came, I went downstairs with him.
    There was nothing to write on, so he wrote on me.
    I might not be back until late.
    I told him I understood.
    He wrote, I'm going to get you magazines.
    I told him, I don't want any magazines.
    Maybe not now, but you'll be grateful to have them.
    My eyes are crummy.
    Your eyes are perfect.
    Promise me that you'll take care.
    He wrote, I'm only going to get magazines.
    Don't cry, I said, by putting my fingers on my face and pushing imaginary tears up my cheeks and back into my eyes.
    I was angry because they were my tears.
    I told him, You're only getting magazines.
    He showed me his left hand.
    I tried to notice everything, because I wanted to be able to remember it perfectly. I've forgotten everything important in my life.
    I can't remember what the front door of the house I grew up in looked like. Or who stopped kissing first, me or my sister. Or the view from any window but my own. Some nights I lay awake for hours trying to remember my mother's face.
    He turned around and walked away from me.
    I went back up to the apartment and sat on the sofa waiting. Waiting for what?
    I can't remember the last thing my father said to me.
    He was trapped under the ceiling. The plaster that covered him was turning red.
    He said, I can't feel everything.
    I didn't know if he'd meant to say he couldn't feel anything.
    He asked, Where is Mommy?
    I didn't know if he was talking about my mother or his.
    I tried to pull the ceiling off him.
    He said, Can you find my glasses for me?
    I told him I would look for them. But everything had been buried.
    I had never seen my father cry before.
    He