No Sunsets in Space

March 6, 2003

Raymi is a satellite with a wide orbit. She circles out where gravity begins to lose interest. So when she called me at 6 o'clock this morning, it made perfect sense. There's no sunrise or sunset in space. She tells me what's on her mind, the things she's been doing, and the things she wants to do. The signal comes and goes, and her whispers break and crack. Interrupted by clamoring planets and crosstalk. "Are you there?" I'm here. "My phone is—uh—yeah—never mind—so—Justin Timberlake is so hot right now." The space between each word is elastic, stretching and snapping. Long and short pauses like a silent Morse code with secret meaning. "Let me call you back. I need to do something." Ok, I drift away and dream of sleeping. The phone yanks me back down. "What were we talking about?" I don't know—something about Jason Timberland. "Ok, never mind, now you talk." I was hoping I wouldn't have to. And I didn't. Every time I started to, she found plenty more to say. A million ideas lay over her like extra blankets in the cold. A big messy pile of cotton and wool kicked off and reshuffled as she tried to find a temperature that didn't make her shiver or sweat. "Wait—let me—hold on a sec—be patient with me—" And I am. I look out the window. It's snowing again.