New

Today you’ll be someone else. You’ll pry yourself from bed and go to the store. You need bread and eggs and to leave the house for a change.

You count stoplights during the drive, two yellows, three reds, and a green. The sky has started to dim. The streets are empty and so are the aisles as you snake under their fluorescents with a cart. You’ll pass what you need again and again before you collect it.

In the produce section there’s a woman stocking oranges. The third time you walk by your eyes catch. You don’t know her, but there’s something in her gaze that might be recognition and might be regret. You’ll start to nod as she turns away. You both hope the other didn’t notice.

By the time you make it back to your car, it’s dark out, but there’s nothing hanging over you. There are less stars than usual, like someone somewhere out there has stolen them. 

The way home blurs. You leave grocery bags full on the counter and let your eyes linger on the darkness outside the window before it’s back to your room.

You’ll stay up later than usual, use the time to read and have a drink. This is what it was like before. It’s easier to pretend, when it’s new. It’s almost like it’s not out there. And even though you know better— you stood on its surface, you were lighter—  it’s not there. You don’t see it. Maybe you’re mistaken. Try not to remember.

Waxing Crescent

Disbelief colored your cheeks when you landed. The air was fresh salt and your breath was heavy. It was over and you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. There wasn’t time to think about it.

They had a party for you that night. You were paraded through the crowd, more exhibit than guest. People paid attention to you. They wanted a part of you to hold. You found yourself swarmed with questions that all echoed back the same: What was it like? 

Before you left, you rehearsed responses in your head. Today, you didn’t answer, except to say that it was quiet. Quiet was not as glamorous as they were hoping. Neither were you. Guests were quickly lured away by your colleagues and their more enticing anecdotes. They told the story in more vibrant words, details elaborating and shifting until their saturation screamed. It was never accurate, never nearly as beautiful.

They basked in the attention and the sunlight and then they moved on. In two years’ time, the one who walked beside you will mention that the trip often slips their mind entirely. They’ll be in their garage or doing the dishes or checking the mail and all of a sudden, they’ll remember it. When they close their eyes, they’re there again with the world in front of them, resilient and ready. They tell you it’s like stepping into warm water. You do not share this luxury.

You were first. A more petulant part of you thought that made you different, was that so wrong? You curated the memory, days of rewriting leading you back to your initial reaction, a quote crafted under the stars— indulgent, reminiscent.

When the moment came and you leapt for man and mankind, you didn’t say anything. It was the stillest the world had ever been and you wanted to savor it. Now, Earth is louder and you can’t tell voices apart. Noise doesn’t filter. It plays over itself in layers and layers until it rings. The room pushes into you, urging you to find your place. 

You click your heels and find yourself outside, wind gusting against you. You’re awake. The celebrations can still be heard behind you when the air stills, a distant murmur. This is where you saw it again for the first time after; it was building.
For the next two weeks, you’d sleep through the day and wake to watch your window at night. Gravity was unfamiliar, but still it haunted your house and cradled you from room to room. When you looked outside, it was always there— always mesmerizing, always out of reach.

No one heard from you and no one knew what to do. There were meant to be adjustments, but they weren’t expecting this. This got them worried. You were first. There were no instructions, no examples. They told you things would be better soon, in other words. They were insistent that it would be, in time. When time didn’t work and you moved further inward, it was maybe. Maybe, if you could see the sun again. Maybe, if you gave more of an effort. Maybe, if you would join us.

Eventually you gave in and quickly learned their words were only hope. Good hope, yes, but you were still somewhere in between.

First Quarter

They decide you won’t go back again. You decide you didn’t really want to, but you know that you’ll spend the rest of your life looking up.

You visit your parents like you said you would. Your mother makes your favorite while you and your father watch TV. He falls asleep in his recliner after a few minutes, snores fading in and out. The show’s a rerun that you might recognize, but the screen is too purple, and your eyes won’t focus. When they speak, the characters sound as if they’re trying to tell you something. No! It’s not too late. Don’t you see? There’s so much out there, so much more to— You turn off the TV and stare at the snow.

Dinner is mostly unspoken. A record spins in the other room, but it feels more like it’s inside of you. When you were younger, your mother would play it for you. She muses along to it now as she fills her plate, fingers tapping lightly on the table. They’ve moved your seat so your back is to the wall. You can feel it through the window behind you, staring.

Conversation staggers before your parents share a little glance and tell you that you should be proud of what you did. You want to say that you are. You want to tell them that it was extraordinary and astounding and that you’ll never do anything like it again. Instead, you ask for the salt. It sounds more like you’re saying sorry.

That night, you find your old telescope in the corner of the room. It’s out at the curb by morning.

Waxing Gibbous

It’ll be a near year soon. You’ve spent your time rising, but you are not the sun, you are unconventional. Your days have hours you can’t name and your nights are porcelain. You need to get back on schedule.

You put the phone back on the hook yesterday and now it won’t stop ringing. Today it is merciless. You lost count, but after what might have been the eighth ring, you give in and answer. On the other end is someone you don’t know, demanding answers. Their wrath comes rapidly, trying to catch you with technicalities and refractions, not letting you speak a word. They’d seen it happen, but they don’t believe you were really up there. Something sparks and smolders within you. You hang up.

Later it starts again. You pick up the receiver, crackling, but this time it’s someone else, someone from before. They invite you out and you feel guilty enough for shouting that you say yes.

When you get to the bar, you are surrounded by people who used to know you and now look at you differently. You see your reflection in them. It’s a chipped record or an anchor ashore. Loved but blemished. Weighted but untethered. They welcome you and hide the questions they’re keeping in clenched fists behind their back. A song begins and they look at each other, relieved and anticipating. It’s a distraction, an open door. The room around you hums. This could be something.

Just before it’s about to rise, you hail a taxi for home and end up on a plane. You wanted something you could control. Instead, you let someone carry you. Somewhere behind you it looms but has to stay. Today, you’re going to outrun it. 

Something lifts from your chest and you know that you’re flying. You chose a seat near the window so you could look down. The angle makes you wistful. It’s not the same, but it’s sturdy.

You land, let yourself stretch your legs, and hop on another flight. It’s upwards and onwards. Beneath, the world is still green and blue, and you’re still breathing. When you touch down, the sun is there, waiting.

Full 

You peek out through your curtains and find it singing to you. This is the closest you’ll get to being there again. It’s taunting and it’s radiant. You wish you could take a switch and shut it off. 

You turn away on your side and close your eyes. That’ll have to do. Recollection flickers inside you— the imprints of your feet on the dust, the place you’d slept on the surface, the arm that guided you back to the ship. You wanted to stay, didn’t you?

The truth is wooden. In theory, you can find it. Somewhere underneath your bed or buried in the sandbox, it waits. In time, you’ll feel it. 

It’s better if you sleep through this one.

Waning Gibbous 

They reintroduce you to the world as if nothing has changed and you haven’t let them down. You’re on a set somewhere, getting prepped for an interview. They wanted to hear about the experience from all three of you. This meant you. The others had already given countless of them, but you were never where you were supposed to be.

When you were waiting to go in, you studied your hands and started thinking. If you only felt the rock through gloves, did you really touch it? When does it stop being your hand and start being something else entirely? Up there the rock doesn’t really glow, but from here, it’s bright. Both things can be true. Surely that must mean something. They call you in before you can decide.

Inside, your colleagues greet you with tight smiles as if they’re trying to place where they know you from. Behind them, there’s a photo of you standing on the surface and you want to point at it and say Look! Look there, that’s me! but your face is covered.

You film for hours. In the end, they only ask you one question. You wonder if you said the right thing and promise yourself that you’ll never try to find out.

This won’t be the last time you see them, but it’ll be years until it happens again. It’s for the best. You wave slight, hollow goodbyes. 

The parking lot is cratered when you walk back to your car to head home. Every light you hit is almost and yellow. It’s somewhere up there, but you can’t see it. You’re grateful for the clouds that keep it from you. It’s probably going to rain soon.

Third Quarter

You will have something to come home to. Your garden has been overgrown for some time now, but you fix it before you go. Sun surrounds you as yank weeds and tend to flowers that weren’t there before. You don’t know who planted them.

When the next rocket takes off, you’re out of town. They’d asked you to come, but you never answered. You watch it from a motel room. The crew is made up of familiar faces. They could have easily been first too. Would that have made a difference? If you had been fifth or seventh or last? Would you still be here? 

After they make the leap and retrace your steps, they come back home. Now, maybe there’s someone out there who’d understand. You hope not.

That night you dream a brass band. They wrote a song for you. It’s a decrescendo. You nearly topple forward as you lean closer, trying to hear the ending. You wake up wishing you could have made it louder and realize.

On your way out, you stop at a gas station for a coffee and enough fuel to let you leave. The man behind the counter recognizes you. You start to retreat, but he calls out after you to ask how the hell you did it and manage to keep so quiet. You slow by the door.

If it’d been him, he says, he’d tell anyone who would listen and he wouldn’t shut up about it.

You laugh, turn back to face him, and admit that you are constantly at odds with yourself over screaming it. He grins and tells you, maybe you should.

Waning Crescent 

Tomorrow, it’ll be summer again. You’ve been traveling and forgetting how to be lost. The feeling returns when you least expect it and you let yourself go backwards.

You’ll take your usual exit towards home and end up on the side road whose name you always forget. You’re orbiting and obeying traffic laws. There are two lights left, both of them green. Ahead of you, it’s a wide, open field. You’ve passed it before and you’ve thought, but you haven’t—

You swerve to the side and slam on your brake. The seat belt saves you from flying forward. A flock of birds flees, startled and symmetrical. You free yourself from the buckle, swing the door open and untie your shoes, chucking them into your backseat. Your feet touch the ground, and you know. 

You’ll stumble slightly on the incline as you leap forward, abandoning your car with its keys in the ignition, exhaling an apology.

Then, you’ll run.

You won’t stop until your legs beg you to. You’ll make it about halfway before you collapse, breath clawing at you as you lie in the grass. It’s still dewed. You weave strands between your fingers, and you look up.

It’s almost noon and it’s beautiful. The world around you glows and you can’t remember why you stayed inside for so long. You’ll consider potential as a substitute for honey and find a word that means everything you’ve been trying to say.

You won’t know how long it’s been, but eventually someone will come and find you. They saw your car abandoned on the side of the road and thought that something might have happened. You assure them that you’re alright. They don’t recognize you or demand an explanation, just press your keys into your open palm. You’ll thank them as they leave. They won’t look back, but they won’t forget you.

Later, it’ll rise and shine on you from behind like a spotlight. You think it might miss you too, but you’ll never say it.