An Eleventh Lesson in Magic by Kristine Ong Muslim

An Eleventh Lesson in Magic


The splash from my nephew's inflatable pool rattles the birds on the roof of the garage. In the corner, the spade that has disturbed the anthill is rusting. You are six when you approach me, ask me why I spend my day closeted in my room. Because I have to write. Like other people sell ice cream. I say, and it is a lame excuse.

You have your picture book of the solar system. You have doodled on the sun. I tell you that the sun is gas, a ball of very hot gas. You seem disappointed; you associate solid things with strength. 

You question: Why the gas stays together? I say something like: "There is a stuff called gravity, which makes dust and gas come together so we can have little planets moving around it. Soon, many many years later the sun will become so hot and so big, like 200 million kilometers across, and it will turn red. It will be called a red giant star (a pretty name for one so great!) and it will puff off its outer layers and then contract (clenching my hand into a fist so you will know that the orb of flames that is once a giant has shrunk). It will turn white, become small and cold."

You wonder what will become of us when that happens. I can see it in your eyes and the way your mouth hangs open. I say: We'll be gone by then. All of us. You frown. Your mortality has not hit you yet. Then your eyes gleam, the beginning of a smile curling up from your lips, and I understand, from that point on, you have finally decided, seen everything that is ahead of you. And you are determined to live forever.