The One who goes to space


He comes to me in pieces as I watch the stillness of space, envisioning new constellations in the array of unrecognized stars. I trace the sparks of light with my finger, connecting the dots and smudging the glass as a result.

How many stars do you think there are in space? I imagine him asking. Can there really be other ones out there as big as or even bigger than the sun?

I always admired his genuine curiosity, how he viewed things with a particular interest, how he saw me. He was the one that organized our sleepovers, the one that nudged me to sign up for afterschool activities such as the chemistry club and the robotics team.

Can you build me a mechanical arm that'll change the channels on the TV's remote, so that way I don't have to? He once asked sarcastically. How about a drone that we can use to spy inside the girls' locker room, huh? Wouldn't that be neat?

When we were kids, he would give me piggyback rides and run with me through the sprinklers across watery arches with captured rainbows. We'd go back home, and my mother would scold us while our shivering bodies shared a single towel, and in the end, he'd shine me a blue-lipped smile with his crooked teeth.