Outer SpaceKim Young
Each of us like a little light saber with a Force that could bind, not just the world, but the entire galaxy together. We believed in Science Fiction, in nuclear ballistic missiles, x-ray technology, Ronald Regan’s big red button. We loved the slender whiteness of our toy rocket boosters. We watched the Challenger explode on a forty inch TV the yard-duty rolled into our classroom. First, lift-off and that long plume of smoke— before the announcement over the PA system: Schoolchildren of America… man’s horizons… the crew’s final mission… And each kid went home to small plastic toys while the world went on about o-rings and washed-up debris. As it turns out, space just keeps on expanding and accelerating— made up of a dark energy that one day will rip our gravity away. So we took the railroad tracks to the park by the wash and climbed to the top of the metal rocket slide. We can’t not look up at those stars— even if they are just gas and dust swirling from a freezing stellar wind. We’re waiting for transmission in a wave of silence, our bodies like little signal towers, our hoods pulled over our heads.
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