T minus
T minus seventeen days.
What will the stars look like?
What will the Earth look like?
Will I still believe in God when I go to space?
T minus fourteen days.
Ready to go now.
Seven days to say goodbye.
What will the world be like without grass?
T minus seven days.
Alone at last.
Everything is white.
Everything is dying.
T minus three days.
Space travel is like dying.
Flying is like dying.
Leaving the ground is a kind of death.
T minus one day.
Space travel is like living.
Can we be truly alive with our feet on the ground?
I’m about to live.
T minus ten minutes.
Space is waiting for me.
Reborn in a cone of fire.
Believing in the fire inside.
T minus ten seconds.
Numbers.
Numbers.
Numbers.
That’s all there is now.
Liftoff.
Fire is everywhere.
This is space.
This is life, or maybe death.
T plus ten minutes.
Darkness, blackness.
What else is there?
Stars are just interruptions in the natural order.
T plus seven days.
This is it.
This is what I am now.
Just another satellite.
T plus fifteen days.
I circling the Earth,
trapped in a wreath of metal.
I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve never felt so alone.
I’ve never felt so free.
T plus twenty-two days.
This is freedom.
Floating, flying, dancing effortlessly.
Watching all your responsibilities turning below.
T plus fifty days.
I feel connected to all of Earth.
I can see everyone, down below.
Is this what God feels like,
watching everyone sleep?
T plus seventy-nine days.
Everyone expects me to be upset that I’m missing things.
I’m not. I’m at peace.
The world does not need grass.
The world does not need grass.
T plus one hundred and seven days.
I’m not ready to go home.
But I’ve realized
that I miss
grass.