SONATA 14

Outside there is dust and darkness and wave after wave of sterile radiation. I know this despite what the porthole tells me. The porthole would have me believe there are a trillion earthly planets waiting just beyond the glass, but this is untrue; there is nothing beyond the glass, nothing but the hollow intimations of a trillion heirless suns

And still I dream.

I dream of pines and rivers and long drives to tempered mountains rising dormant in the sky. I dream of you and the girls huddled fast against windows, watching the world turn gold to green, as I mash the accelerator and we ascend weightless through shelves of rock and time.

And then I wonder, what good are dreams if no one’s there to hear them?

So I ask you, Julie, can you still divine my thoughts? Is our connection still as strong as the day we came to marry? I hope so. I hope, right now, you’re upstairs, bundled in blankets, absorbing every word. But more than anything, I hope the house is safe, the bed is warm, and the kids are doing well. This I hope as I hurtle toward the Earth.

Outside the scenery has changed. The darkness has given way to strands of pallid light. There are colors there, in the strands, shades of blue and green. Do you see them? There and there. Undulating. Unfurling. They are swells of sodden life. See how they blend, how they blur, how water becomes plant, becomes fish, becomes sky? See how all life’s spectrum lies wholly in between? It’s all there, Julie. I swear to you. It’s there.

And now it’s gone.

Mere seconds and the porthole has changed. The glass has become brighter, tumultuous; the blue-green has given way to squalls of violent red. Mere seconds and I have traveled an unfathomable distance — a distance far greater than any you and I have ever shared. But it’s not about the distance, Julie. It never was.

And again the porthole has changed.

Outside, the red has subsided. A pale blue has emerged to take its place. This blue is warmer than the other; it is the blue of oceans, of summer skies, of family photos long forgotten. It is the blue that once stalked me through the house, demanding knowledge, attention; it is the blue of evenings, of weekends. It is the blue of endless adoration.

And now it’s gone.

And a second color has emerged to fill the glass. It’s a familiar color. The like of which I’ve not seen in weeks. It belongs to a trio of listless clouds; each one frail, and smooth, and remarkably cylindrical. They are the archetypes of the silken chutes packed in talc above my head. There are three of those as well, three parachutes. Two small. One big.

Have I mentioned the parachutes before? I must have. All those restless nights, counting down the hours, the minutes until launch. All those endless days. I must have conveyed every detail, assuaged every fear. Every detail except one, that is. One tiny element I failed to relate. It’s nothing bad, mind you. Just embarrassing. So much so, I was reluctant to mention it. But I’m not embarrassed anymore. So here it is . . .

I’ve named the chutes, the parachutes, I mean. I’ve given them names. It’s silly, I know. Like naming a teddy bear, or a bicycle, or something. But as soon as the idea crossed my mind, I had to see it through. The smaller ones, the safety chutes, I named Kara and Amber. And the big one, the main chute, I named Julie.

I know—it’s ridiculous, naming a piece of cloth. But without them, Julie, I would plummet through the atmosphere and shatter the waves. Without them, I’m wreckage, a hostage to the sea.