I rest my head in your hands,
close my eyes and feel your shoulder
beneath my ear.
I remember the first time you held me
this way. I remember their fight:
something about a wandering eye, and the
dinner table conflagrated before our eyes.
The heat of our father’s breath, the shrill
of our mother’s tone, the soft pace of
your fingers across my back.
You took me to the stars, let us watch
the eruption of our home from the
distance of a lightyear.
Thank you for making me an astronaut,
for showing me how to float, eyes closed,
when forks and tablecloth felt heavier
than Earth itself.
By Niko Malouf
As a teenager living in Los Angeles, Niko enjoys writing about the things that surround him, stimulate him, the events of his adolescence as well as the happenings of the world. He hopes to share his experiences and perspective with others and inspire them to do the same.