Prodigal Son

I think and have thought

about death

more than most people do and have,

and that’s always been my way.

Being up here in space for so long,

waiting for little green men

and laser cannons and battle arrays

and continent-sized asteroids,

—earthkillers and starsmashers—

plagues and symbiotes,

radiation and cosmic disaster

will do that to someone.

The whole time,

even now as my long night in the skies

seems like it might come to an end,

as my calendar ticks towards the last day,

I never thought that it might be possible to return home.

Here I am though.

Here I am

staring at the calendar and wondering how

five years

has passed.

I stopped looking in the mirror

to avoid seeing how solitude

has greyed my hair

and lined my face,

how solitude has faded my eyes.

When I read back over my notes and my journals and my logs,

all I read is pain,

anguish 

over a decision I wish I hadn’t made.

When I land in a few days’ time,

this will all be a dream from which I wake.

The sights of stars and planets and comets and cosmic mist,

they will be consigned to memories no one else can share.

Maybe there are others who have been up here for so long

they lost their sense of self.

How do we find each other?

How do we connect?

How can we connect about the loneliest we’ve ever felt?

How can we connect about being so alone it doesn’t matter

what we think, feel or say?

Up here, nothing matters.

Down there, everything matters.

I used to believe

as above,

so below,

and now I don’t know.

One more sleep and I will program my ship to go home,

and I wonder if it really is home anymore.

I wonder if that’s ever something I can go back to.

I wonder if I will miss my long watch amongst the stars.