In another universe, you have his eyes.
She lies awake at night when the house is silent and you’ve slipped into sleep recalling their depth and warmth: Warmth absent in the turbulent waves of blue you stare at her with when you
think she’s about to break.
It’s the first time radiation leaves its mark on you.
Iowa feels like the furthest thing from space, but you stare out your window, fingers outstretched, and it feels closer than your mother sleeping down the hall.
She stays as long as she can bare and seven years after you were born she’s surrounded by the darkness once more, but all you can see is yellow grass and dirt.
You eagerly await your mother’s return and pass the time playing with Sam and avoiding Frank who smells of beer and blood.
You know he’s not your father: Sam reminds you every second that you’re alive that George Kirk died in space saving countless lives.
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