This week Pegman takes us to Mars, a place my son has been threatening to go for years.
I squint up at the night sky, to the dusty red smudge where he points. It’s a smaller star then most, easily lost in a salt of brighter, prettier lights.
“I can message every day, Mom,” he says.
I sigh. This is how she must’ve felt: my great-grandfather’s mother, as she watched his wagon train disappear into the endless sea of grass.
“Once we put in the SatRads, we can Skype.”
I nod. This is how she must’ve felt—my Galway gran, as she watched her bonny son’s ship slip past the curve of the ocean.
“I promise I’ll be back.”
He squeezes my hand, but we both know the odds.
This is how she must’ve felt—my Nether-Norse gamm, as she watched her Viking son row off.
I hold my tongue and say none of the things I want to say to keep him here. How can I?
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