The long, slow, Mars-bound transit is steel corridors and dim lights, unwashed bodies and grim, silent faces. It is hope, desperation, and apathy all packed in together.
The roar of the engines tumbles memories into the now, merging dreams with reality. For those of us too poor for the inner chambers, speech is impossible, quashed by the sound and closeness.
But every part of you has a voice, speaks a moment. Your smile tells our wedding day; your shoulders, the lonely, crowded Earth.
Your eyes . . .
I can’t handle your eyes.
I put the photo away, wishing you were here, alive.
Author’s note: We’re always looking backwards, even if we think we want to start over. This one had its start thinking about those introspective moments, and where people might have them in the future.