In the dark,

I lifted you out of sleepiness

into my arms,

school ahead of you,

but for the minute

that I carried you

down the stairs

to breakfast,

you were a larger version

of your toddler-self,

your head on my shoulder,

your limbs still floppy;

the universe so vast

that if I walked

for seven years

I wouldn’t even reach the Moon,

the Sun three thousand years beyond that

and the next nearest star

eight hundred million years away,

and in that vastness of length

only I had the privilege

of holding you.

— Mary Soon Lee

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. Her short stories have appeared in Analog, F&SF, Interzone, Lightspeed and several Year’s Best anthologies. She has won the Elgin Award and the Rhysling Award for her poetry, and, in August, had 119 haiku in Science, one for each element of the periodic table.

First Published: February 24, 2018, 5:00 a.m.