Apparent Magnitude: Negative 28, Brighter Than the Sun

July 11, 2016

By Tricia Theis

We’re in church and the minister is reading a story about Maria Mitchell, America’s first female astronomer, when my son whispers, “When I grow up, if there’s a planet left that nobody has been to, I’m going to be the first person to step on it.”
I brush my hand through his flop of hair and push it out of his eyes. Leaning down to kiss the side of his head, I breathe in the smell of his scalp—sweaty, because I let him get away without a shower.
I say I love the idea. I think how heartbreaking and sublime, to be the mother of an astronaut.

“But—” he begins.

He’s concentrating on his hands in his lap; his legs are criss-cross applesauce in his chair.
“I might have to be gone for, like, a year.”
He looks at me only peripherally; his expression is serious and shy. Measuring my reaction to his proclamation, he seeks comfort and permission at once.
I cup my hand around his head and pull his body towards me.
“I know,” I say.
His future departure is a presence that shimmers there between us. It sparkles like a firecracker—a glitter rocket whose fuse is only so long, the wick already ignited.

Tricia Theis lives in Baltimore, and keeps house casually with her husband, two kids, and two dogs. 

Photo, “Blast Off” provided by Centophobia via Flickr’s Creative Common license.

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