by Regan Wolfrom
Copyright © Regan Wolfrom 2012
I've been writing this same letter to you for eighty-nine years.
We're pushing out now past the rings of Saturn, the beautiful orange light glowing through the starboard window. I expected to find signs of life out here, the teeming and expanding humanity that surrounds it, but all I see besides the planet are the stars; even the moons are too small for my eyes to see.
I wonder if you saw this, or if this planet was on the other side of the sun as you came by. I wonder if you've seen anything more startling out here and if I'll see it, too.
I wonder how long it will be before I see you again.
We’re passing not too far away, but I can only find Uranus by using my lenses; I zoomed in far enough to see a couple of gray specks against the icy blue-green clouds, float vessels or tankers, I'm not sure which.
It’s likely the last planet I'll see for a long time, between twenty years and forever, and the notion makes me feel even more alone.