The universe is dying.
I can tell by how the stars are flicking off like lightbulbs.
But that’s why I’m here, electrician to the sky,
R5-70, a nanobot with 3,000 siblings.
We crawl through the dim space like cave explorers,
poking, twisting and tightening the stars that have turned off.
And as they blink back on memories scorch us
like solar flares from the Sun,
burning, because the past is angry for being forgotten.
Here is one, I see my daughter,
chicken wing arms and jalapeno eyes.
She’s hugging me because she got a good report card.
I’m telling her I’m proud.
And then my body is sizzling as though I’ve been
thrown into lava.
It’s another memory,
another star turning back on.
My daughter’s chicken wing arms are replaced
by Mother’s jellyfish ones.
Mother is walking me to school,
double knotted shoes and neon green sunglasses.
I tell her that I want to look my best for Julia,
my crush since last school year.
So, Mother opens her mouth to reply with words I can’t recall.
I feel cold as a comet. The words are trapped behind her lips.
They will die there, caged and forgotten,
because it’s too late.
The star flickers off, keeping its prisoners for eternity.
The universe is dying, a few thousand more stars to go.
We nanobots strive to keep all the stars on,
but they’re dying too fast—
the asteroids are snapping the wires.
Soon, it will be dark, and all the memories will be gone.
When that happens, the universe will be dead,
and we will be reassigned to repairing and maintaining
another dying universe
inside another person’s head.