Pinned
i used to stare up at the moon. longing.
the closest i ever got was the big gray model at the science museum, big enough to fill a room, but so small really, in the grand scheme.
astronauts, i was told, had to be good at math. i could always ask my mother now - did she say that to motivate, or disqualify? did she hope that memory of the moon, that desire, would reach me while i sat sobbing over pre-algebra at the dining room table?
playing a conversation game, i am asked the prompt. would you rather have a million dollars or go to the moon? (but you can't tell anyone you've been. it must stay a secret, between the moon and you.)
it is an easy choice for me. my husband and his friend are baffled - what's the point of going to the moon if not to brag of the experience? i want to ask them if they've never wanted something just to want it.
(later i will learn the answer, when i find the love letter hidden in his wallet)
i know that i will never have what i wanted in those moments. when the moon looked so close it felt like i could build a ladder and touch it, touch it with my bare hands. that is as close to impossible as anything can be.
but what if the moon saw me one day - if i made her smile? what if she asked me, why are you staring? do you want -?
oh no, no, i would have to demur. i mean, yes. of course i want. but you see, i was never good at math.
what does math have to do with anything? she would ask.
well then, i would say. yes. i have always wanted to touch you.
(did you know the moon can blush?)
