The Astronaut's Wife

I can hear an echo, the sound of something distant. I wonder if it's your voice crying out to me from another planet, another galaxy, another star. Six months, 2 days, and 15 hours ago I said goodbye to you as you boarded your flight. Conditions were good, weather was clear, both within and without of the atmosphere. The ship you were boarding had been checked and rechecked and found to be safe and secure. You guys were well supplied, well prepared, well trained to handle any and all possible situations. Everyone was feeling a bit optimistic, but no one said anything about the tears as we spoke our goodbyes.1

There was a kiss, a hug, a promise to be safe. The door shut with a hiss as the airlock closed you off from this planet and prepared you for the next one. I still remember how the smell of your cologne lingered on me, like the scent of your skin after a night of being together. The phantom feeling of your lips brushing mine never left me, even as I watched you disappear out of sight, ascending up into the sky. You had told me, in your romantic way, that our love would now span the galaxies. I felt the thread of it pulling at my heart with every step you took away from me. By the time you had reached your spaceship I had already felt stretched too thin. Now that you're who knows how many lightyears away, I feel I've come undone.2

The days have been passing slowly without you. I go through the same routine of waiting for you day after day after day. I admit, sometimes it is really frustrating. Especially at night, when I turn towards your side of the bed and feel how cold it is. I constantly wash the sheets to make them warm again, but it's not the same. It hurt when I realized I had washed the smell of you out of it, I felt like I had lost one more piece of you. Things go by in a blur where your absence shields me from reality. I don't feel like I'm connected to this world at all, pulled too far out of orbit by the hold your gravity has on me.3

Today, a man by your name died in the papers. He was hailed as a hero, I don't remember why. Looking at the newspaper reminded me of the day they announced your flight's mission and it hurt, so I looked away. A few days before, a letter with a dark feeling came. It was from your employers, those men at NASA with their cold math and their indecisive guesses at where you are and what you're doing. I didn't open it, I'm sure it didn't say anything important. Besides, if I don't open it, then maybe the darkness inside that letter will go away, and cease to exist. Maybe if I don't open the letter, everything will be ok. 4

I've noticed that the phone is unplugged. I can't quite recall why. I do remember someone from your workplace calling. He said something...that they had lost contact with you for a couple of days, but not to worry because it was expected with the distance. I remember now. I told him of course I wasn't worried, you had promised me you'd be fine, and you never lied to me, so why should I be worried? I guess I got a little upset...the phone really doesn't need to be connected again, does it?5

How long ago was that? I don't remember anymore. 6

The mail has been piling up, I just can't bring myself to go through it. I'll wait for you to come home to sort it out. But I know, as soon as you walk in that door, the first thing I'm going to want to do is hold you. It's been too long since I've had the reassurance of your touch, and I really miss it. Maybe once you're with me I'll be able to open that letter, you'd probably laugh at my foolish and superstitious ways, but you'll say it's just one more thing you love about me and we'll both smile at that.7

I sit by the window, staring outside. It's a sunny day, perfect conditions for landing, I think. Your flight was due back a week ago but you haven't come home yet. Maybe you'll come today. Every day I've sat here and looked out the window, expecting to see you walking down the sidewalk, whistling perhaps, and grinning the way you always grin. Each day I go to bed thinking that maybe you'll return at night, at a time when we can both see the stars you've just returned from. And no matter how many days go by that you don't come back, I still expect you to return.8

I'm not stupid, I know what the seal on that letter means, but if I haven't opened it then I haven't read it and it's not for sure. If it's not a certainty, then there's still hope, and I have to hope, because I have to wait. I have to wait, because I promised you, and if I don't keep my promise to wait, why should you keep yours to come back? I know you'll keep your promise, you always do.9

Outside, the sidewalk remains empty, and the glaring sunlight is making my eyes water. I won't look away though, because I know at any moment, you could come back, and I wouldn't miss that moment for the world. As soon as you do, I'm going to want to hold you, because I've been longing for that reassurance of touch. You will come back, you will. I believe.