Gravity

You are not bound by gravity, my son.

Midnight, finger tapping my shoulder.

Fortress under my blankets. Helpless tears slip down his cheeks.

“They hate me, Momma,” he whispers, voice cracking. What can I say to that?

You are not bound by gravity, my son.

“Why am I so weird?” His question is broken, tentative. Saying it aloud makes it more real than it was before.

“Some people are just born different, baby.”

“Are you different, Momma?” What an innocent question.

“Yes,” I say, voice sticking. So I repeat myself. “Yes, I am.”

But we are not bound by gravity.

From Guest Contributor Tirzah Blazis

Tirzah is a high school senior who takes dual enrollment classes at Pikes Peak Community College.