SONATA 14

Outside, there is nothing — only darkness, and wave after wave of deadly 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 silent 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 yet I wonder, what good are dreams if no one is there to share 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. I hope the house is safe and the bed is warm. And I hope, above all, the day was kind and the kids are well.

All this I hope as I plummet toward the Earth.

Outside the scenery has changed. The dark pall 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 sudden life. See how they blend, how they sway, how water becomes plant, becomes fish, becomes sky? See how all life’s spectrum lies wholly in between? It’s all there, Julia. 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 squalls have subsided, and a pale blue light has emerged to take their place. This blue is warmer than the last. It is the blue of oceans, of ribbons, of family photos long neglected. It is the blue that stalks me through the household, demanding knowledge and attention. It is the blue of evenings and weekends. It is the blue of endless adoration.

And now it’s gone.

And now a second color has usurped the glass — the likes of which I have not seen in weeks. It belongs to a trio of listless clouds; each frail and smooth and strangely cylindrical. They are kin to the vapory sails packed in talc above my head. There are three of those as well. Three parachutes. Two small. One big.

Did I mentioned the parachutes before?

I must have. All those sleepless nights. Those endless days. I must have conveyed every detail, assuaged every fear. Every detail except one, that is. There is one detail I failed mention. One tiny element I neglected to relate. It’s nothing bad. 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 parachutes, the clouds packed in talc above my head. I’ve given them names. It’s silly, I know — like naming a teddy bear or a bicycle. 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 Julia.

Without them, Julie, I would plummet through the atmosphere and shatter the waves. Without them, I am wreckage, a hostage to the sea.