I always loved the sky. When I was a kid I made shapes out of the clouds, I counted the stars at night to help me sleep and if asked what superpower I wanted most I’d always answer with flying. I wanted to be so light that I would float among the clouds. I wanted to discover new places that no-one had even seen before. I wanted to be higher and further than everything. Maybe that's why I took up rock climbing so I could reach the sky and all that lay beyond. I'd climb and climb and climb. But still I’d never reach it.
Who knew that it'd only take 5 years of intense astronaut training to be sent in a capsule far beyond the clouds, the atmosphere and into the depths of space. I joined the academy on a whim with my childhood dreams propelling me. I trained hard and then, finally, I had my chance. It was a simple information gathering mission in which a few of us were chosen to take individual capsules into space for 3 months and 2 days. I was so excited. But it was nothing like I thought it'd be. I demagnetized into the vast expanse of absolutely nothing, with no one to find me.
I realise that the only time I felt like I was truly flying was with you, my husband. I felt light, dizzy and in a constant state of floating when around you. Floating into your arms or floating into your kisses. We met at a mutual friend's wedding nearly four years ago. You were so drunk when you asked me to dance. I couldn't stop laughing. You sobered up quickly and I don't think you touched another drink that night. I thought you charming and you thought me hypnotizing. Its memories like this that come back to me now. It's all I have. I’ll never fly again.
It would've been my 31st birthday next month and I was trying to decide whether or not to invite my estranged sister or call my sick mother. I was leaning towards both; it’d work out somehow. You always said my head was in the stars and I said yours was in the soil, for you were a gardener. You could've taken a star from my headspace and planted it into your soil where it'd bloom into a beautiful flower. The gardener and the astronaut; what a great story that could have been. We could have read it to our kids. The kids we'll never have. I've even thought of names for them. You see I've had a lot of time to think out here. 3 months and 17 days to be exact.
17. The red flashing dial displayed 17%. 17% of a shower consisted of gazing at you. 17% of my text messages that were sent to wrong numbers of long ago friends that no longer exist. 17% of my daily liquid intake was caffeine. 17% of my income went on cute second hand scarfs. 17% of my jewellery actually belongs to someone else. 17% of the daily sunlight hit the porch. 17% of my weekends consisted of doing something other than sleeping. 17% of oxygen left in my capsule.
I always considered breathing a right, but now I see it as a privilege. You never really appreciate what you've always had. I used to take oxygen for granted. I once had this friend who had bad asthma, her lungs needed help to breathe properly and she had to be careful to keep her breathing constant and controlled. But, you see, she loved singing. She would sing loudly and often. When she sung her breathing got out of control and she'd have an attack. Sometimes it's the things that we love that kill us. Oh no, she's not dead. Infact she's physically very healthy. She hasn't sung in years. Sometimes it's the things that kill us that we love.
Oh god, I’m going to die. I'm going to die out here. In the middle of no-where. With no-one. Even if my colleagues knew where I was they'd never reach me in time. I have to work hard to stay calm and control my breathing, like my asthmatic friend, for I have to conserve what little oxygen I have left. I haven’t talked in weeks and I haven’t moved in days. There’s food but I don’t eat much. It’s cold but I don’t mind. I’ve had weeks to come to terms with this so I’m strangely calm. I just get weird panic attacks like that every now and then as if I just realised what’s happening. The dial still says 17%. How long is that? Days? Or hours? Surely I have no more weeks.
I’ve always been an independent person who needs space. I liked being alone yet I was never lonely. But this, this takes everything to a new level. On Earth there was always someone next door or a block over or a phone call away. No matter how far you travelled there was always someone somewhere. You couldn’t escape. But here, in space, you’re trillions of kilometres from the nearest life-form. I’ve never heard such silence and I’ve never seen such stillness. Loneliness has never been so vast. I just wish…I wish for human warmth and human hands right now. Your warmth and your hands.
I see the Earth sometimes through the porthole-like window. All that life. That life that people take for granted. There’s someone crying, someone smiling, someone lying, someone trying, someone trusting and someone busting. There’s millions of someone’s doing millions of something’s. And here I am. One no-one, doing no-thing but thinking about her some-one who must surely know that something went wrong by now. How will you react? Will you be okay? Oh please tell me you’ll be okay. Your father better cut his stupid business trip short and be there for you. I hope you’ll be okay. Eventually. I love you.
The thing with rock climbing is you always had a rock to clutch onto and if you fall the ground will always be there. You, my rock, were always there. I’m sorry I can’t be there for you now. If I had the chance to choose a superpower now it would be that of teleportation. I just want to be lower and closer to everyone. As a kid I loved the sky, but as an adult I love the ground with its solidity and protectiveness. I wish I could touch that ground just one more time.
I think of you in our garden with your silly sunhat and your woman’s gloves. I watch the oxygen level dial drop to 16%.
