Dying in space

There have been so many times

up here

in the darkness

where I’ve missed everything about Earth.

Where I’ve missed

people

and cats

and dogs

and live music

and a cold beer with friends,

and I’ve missed 

going to the movies,

picking up the mail,

wandering the aisles of the grocery store,

paying too much for gas,

grumbling about one chocolate bar over another,

getting frustrated about a lineup,

stubbing my toe,

working a job for not enough money,

embarrassing myself when I drank too much,

having to explain away bad habits,

catching an earful for whatever reason,

stepping in dog shit on the sidewalk that someone was too lazy to pick up.

There have been times where

I missed

not having enough money in my bank account,

seeing my car low enough on fuel that I’d wonder if it would start,

wondering if I could feed the dog and myself,

dreaming about respite from the monotony of the day,

finding a way to avoid the morning,

looking at a calendar and dreading the passage of time,

hoping the clock would stop,

begging anyone who would listen to cast a little light my way.

And the whole time I’ve been up in this little space station

watching the screens,

monitoring the radar systems,

listening to the bleeps and the bloops,

straining my ears as I tried to parse out anything from

the radio signals.

That whole time I’ve been grateful to be alone.

All the things I’ve missed are all the things

I wanted to get away from,

all the things that made me want to come up here

in the first place.

I know it’s my lot to die up here,

to waste away in a one-man shuttle,

waiting to signal down that I’ve seen something,

anything,

maybe even nothing

and knowing that

I am happy I left everything behind.