“A Place to Call Home”

It’s funny. I don’t miss you.
Sometimes I think of my home. You wouldn’t know it. It’s light-years from here, in a constellation that can’t even be seen from this perspective of galactic orbital coordinates. But I remember it well. The places where we grow up are the stories that we experience, it’s what comes to define us. The trouble is, if it ever ends, it’s difficult to decide whether that was fundamentally a good one or not. I like to think it was. The stories that you experience aren’t nearly as important as the ones you make for yourself. I remember my home, my framing device. Way up on the cosmic stage. The characters stood beneath the footlights, but all shows must end. And I’m the only one left. It only exists in my mind’s eye, like steam in a storm. All things fade. But my memory of them never will. When I close my eyes, I can still see them standing there. This isn’t a love story, they’re dead now, just like the rest of them. But it could have been. We lived on farms, my kind. My family’s farm was beneath a sloping mountain that shone in the dawn when the sun rose and reflected off the snow-laden slopes. The fields of grass stretched all the way down to a river, and that was the divide between my family’s farm and theirs. We were good friends. We used to play in those fields. They always felt much more wanderlust than me. Time and again, we’d lie back amongst the barley. I’d look at them. I’d gaze on at them. But they were in love with the sky, as if they were experiencing some divine affair with angels. The Heavens was their lover. And now even that’s gone. They always used to say to me, “Let’s find our way off this planet”. I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. But I had a family back home. They didn’t. And that was the difference between us. They had a hole that needed filling, and not even I could do that. I think, looking back, the places that made me what I am aren’t nearly as important as the people that made me who I am. I just wish I’d listened to them. We could be romping the clusters by now.


Author: the Purple Prose Mage

I'm not Batman, but I wish that I were.

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