Where did you come from, tiny astronaut?
I stole you from a sibling and they never stole you back. Now you sit on a stack of books beside my laptop, just watching the world, motionless behind your dark little helmet.
I realized tonight that if I set you on my keyboard, the desktop background makes it look like you’re floating through a starry sky. It isn’t quite like the real thing, but I don’t think you’d know the difference.
From your perspective, my desk is the world—a strange, chaotic little planet, its landscape made up of half-finished drawings and art supplies and random bits of nature and empty mugs and forgotten letters.
I wonder what you’d think if you saw how big the universe can be, how much there is beyond a child at a scuffed desk in the corner of a lamplit room.
I’ll tell you about it: the moon was so bright tonight. It started off at the edge of the road in early evening, when I wandered down there with my sister after we finished walking the dog. We reached the gate and just stopped because there it was, huge and yellow and warm, three times its normal size, hanging right above the neighbor’s empty field. We went out again after midnight, marveling at our own shadows against the gray earth and watching it hover silver and sharp above the trees.
The thing about moonlight, though, is that it’s really just sunlight—a distant reflection, lacking warmth, but it’s coming from the same place. The moon hangs in cold orbit while the sun sets it aglow for few hours, and in that pale light, my side of the earth takes a moment of rest.
It’s pretty cool out there, little astronaut.
Maybe I’ll take you outside and show you the real stars sometime.