*Scratch, scratch, scratch*
went the impossible pen.
This story ends improbably. The life lead prior was a series of paradoxes and everything in between made about as much sense as the bookends.
240,000 miles from home on a great white rock hurtling through space, I’m
writing a letter to a woman who’s famous for being a man
and who’d just finished building me a rocket ship out of life lessons and moon rocks.
“We can’t choose the ones we love,” I wrote, “but we often make the wrong choice.”
and yeah, these words aren’t worth their weight in sappy, gooey, b-list literature, character origin story, custom made for the big-screen but in medias res-olution, cop-out cliché bullshit, but
a couple minutes later I held the finished letter in my hands. I hadn’t bothered to address it or even seal it in an envelope; its journey wasn’t far. Signing my name at the bottom, I looked to my friend, a half-grin playing out along the corner of my mouth.
“I think that’s about… it. Yeah, I think I’m ready.”
She returned a comforting smile and held out her hand.
“Let’s see it.”
Hesitantly, I handed over the paper and waited. It was the first time that I’d written something so personal. My armor—this callous emotional shell, fortifyed by years of snake-tongued, snowflake friends and loves like the flames from a beat-ass lighter—was starting to yield to a woman I’d met only yesterday. Granted, though it may have taken a cosmic theater of the impossible to crack the shell, this letter was a huge step.
A minute later, she folded over the paper. Her eyes met mine.
“How is it?” I pried.
*tap, tap, tap* My foot on moon rubble.
The dim light reflected a spark in her eyes, “You’re ready.”
My spirits lifted as a weight fell from my shoulders. I took one last improbable look up at the ground I thought I’d known so well. It was time to head home.
It was time to return to Earth.