Document 1: Newspaper article
“The prevalence of nitrogen and hydrogen indicate an origin in interstellar space.”
Your mother read those lines out loud. Looked at you, eyes wide, a mime of joyful excitement, mouth open, aliens might have brought it! In a space ship!
You gave no reaction but seemed to sense that this was about the stone in your hand, and you clutched it even tighter in your tiny fist. You would not let go. From that day on it is your constant companion.
“Isotope studies have yielded further clues…” her voice faded, she read on silently, lips moving without sound.
You turned around and looked out the window, your tiny back shut us out.
A cloud moved and summer sunlight came crashing through the window, setting your golden curls on fire. One foot resting on tiptoes, a chubby calf, nappy bum, spine, golden hair.
All there, all complete, smooth surface, unmarked.
Isotopes, potassium, sodium, finally tuned balances.
“Pea- sized. Large porous aggregates of many tiny black crystals. The toughest natural diamond”.
Document 2: Health Service Questionnaire
“doesn’t smile or laugh and seems like an “earnest child”
Your mother ticks that box, almost inaudibly letting go of breath.
“moves objects repeatedly in front if the face” Tick. “touches or palpitates objects for a long time” We look at each other and she smiles, audibly. I smile, audibly, too.
You come down the stairs, we listen to your footsteps, the doors need to be always open and no skirting visible. Skirting cannot be traversed, not even with your black stone in your hand.
No spaceship carrying you from one world to the next.
You enter the room and walk towards me, not looking at me, stopping beside the chair, your head at the height half up my upper arm, your golden hair electrostatic and aligning itself towards my skin. You tilt your head slightly and it rests against my arm for a brief moment and I dare not to breathe.
Document 3: Care facility check list
I hope no one will ever try to prise open your hand and take your stone, because muscles need to be moved and dead skin removed and smells held in check.
I hope no one will ever try make you cross over skirting boards or take off the covers in your room, pieces of wallpaper, painted in the same greenish colour of the wall, that your mother and I carefully pasted over them.
“special dietary requirements” “problematic behaviour” “favourite toy”
I hope no one will ever make you eat a plain roll with your right hand. Or a roll with raisins in it, no matter which hand.
I hope someone will see you standing at this room’s window, sills and frame painted greenish, just as a precaution. And see you looking outside, sunlight crashing through the window when a cloud moves, and setting your golden hair on fire.
I hope you will move the stone, the black diamond, in front of your face in that light. The
smooth impenetrable surface, unmarked. The isotopes, the aggregated crystals, calf, bum, spine. Your spaceship to another world.
I hope we will continue to move through the same interstellar space, and meet from time to time, cosmic debris.