Story 16 // Astronaut

This is an memory-story combo, fyi. 

Hi, my name is Hannah and I'm an astronaut.  

photo source here

Some of my childhood memories are of being on timeouts during school. I don't know why I remember this, but I must of been on timeout a lot to keep it as a memory all these years. Timeout usually meant getting stuck in an unused classroom, being told the vague instruction to "think about what I've done", and being bored out of my mind. There was this big floor length mirror in the room, along with old toys no one wanted to play with any more, broken and worn out. So I would lay on my stomach in front of this mirror, close enough to see each freckle on my face. And I would look into it, into my face, and try to think about the day I was created. Not how I was created, this was way before I knew about "the birds and the bees", but more like who I was before being born. 

Does that make sense? Maybe I'm crazy, but I just had to know how I was made to look like this, exactly like this. Why did I have these features? Why was my face this shape, hair this color, etc? How does hair hold color, and why do people have all different shades? Why was I born in this town and not another? Why did I have these exact parents and not different ones? Did they have a purpose for me, or did I have a purpose for them? Why was I born in this exact era/decade/time? Why did my eyes have pupils, could I see things before I was born, and why couldn't I remember them now...? It literally kept me busy for the entire timeout. These timeouts must not have been too long, but to me it felt like I had been in front of that mirror for hours, asking these same questions about the universe and beyond. I thought if I asked them long enough, stared into my face hard enough, I would get my answers. 

Then, a little while later, in grade school, I remember learning all about space and the planets. There it was again, my burning questions about existence. But this time I thought maybe the answers were out there, if I could only venture into space myself to look for them. I would turn over every moon rock. I would travel all the way to Pluto (it's still a planet to me!) and stand on the highest rock on it's surface, peering over the top, on my tip toes, to see into space past it. I would squint into the blackness, shine my flashlight into the abyss, and wave my arms to flag the answers over to me. I was determined to find out about existence and the universe. 

So, I decided to become an astronaut. 

I would plan space missions while on the playground, usually resulting in unique but inconclusive findings. My mission logs were kept in a diary, double locked for confidential reasons. I started to get paranoid. I feared the government would one day raid my room and confiscate all my research. Someone was hiding these answers, I thought. Someone knows this already, I need to find them. They would answer them all for me, every last one. They would get it. 

Over the years, my aspirations to become an astronaut faded, as our childhood careers usually do. I would read science fiction books about space, but I lost the momentum to pursue my questions. But every once in a while I'll come across an article about space that will reignite my questions, and I'll once again feel that childlike excitement I had for space. I'll look up at the moon at night, on my patio holding my cat, and think about them. Maybe they are looking back at me, floating around Earth, just waiting for the right moment to drop down. Some nights I think I can sense them. 

I'll find those answers one day, I just know it.