Apollo 1. Challenger. Columbia.

I hadn't known that the last Thursday in January is the Day of Remembrance for NASA, but I know now.

Being a space case was sort of mandatory, the way I was raised.

I suppose I probably ought to say something really deep, but my sinuses hurt. So instead I'll say that there are rumors that May looks good for a launch.

The only fitting memorial is fixing things and going back up.

Words are all I have to sing the dream of being weightless. This body was not meant for flight, for space, for liftoff's thrust and burn and crushing weight. Not meant for stomach falling into throat in orbit, where tears can fly in spinning crystal spheres. I shelter safely under ozone's blanket, not soaring high and scorching skin with bitter rays.

Would that I were there where words are weightless. Would that I were there where action and reaction dance close upon each other's heels. Would that I could see with my own eyes the way the world is round, a living marble wrapped with cloudy air.

Those that dare to fly have lived the dream of being weightless. Their bodies faced the thrust and burn and crushing weight. They danced with feet on stars, tiptoe among the spinning crystal spheres. They shall still soar, high above our scorched and bitter tears.