My children found my old Universe in a Box.
When I was their age, they were all the rage. You’d reach inside, and stars would coat your fingers like glitter. You’d rinse your hands, and galaxies would be washed down the sink. At night, I’d find stellar remnants on my pillows. The screams of displaced civilisations pierced my dreams like cosmic rays.
I told my children not to touch. ‘It’s precious,’ I said.
After they went to bed, I dipped my pinkie in. Held it to my ear. Allowed the crackle of destruction to make me feel young.