Little Inklings 2024

LOOKING UP By: Webber Druckerman ’28 May 13, 1982 - 9:42 PM “Father! Father! Look!” The young girl said. She rushed outside theirmodest cottage on the beach, pointing emphatically at the sky above. “What is it, dear?” The young girl’s father asked. “The star! It’s a shooting star!” said the seven-year-old with a passion for astronomy. Just as she had said, the small orb whizzed, magically, across the sky. Her father brought out their telescope, her most prized possession. Her curly hair blew in thewind as she peered into the glass. She gazed longingly at the stars. “Will I ever get to see the planets up close?” she asked her loving father. “One day, my dear, one day.” A smile grew on the young girl’s face. Together, they gazed up at the constellations above, observing the tranquil mosaic above them. She rested her head on her father’s chest, and they both slowly fell asleep. December 5, 2039 - 7:10 AM Fernwoke with a start as a shooting star whizzed by her window, remembering her youthful days. As she looked outside, all she saw were the constellations, all she had seen for the last six months. She said to herself, “Fern, that one day is today.” Excitement flowed through her as she ran to the bridge, as eager as a dog with a tennis ball. Donning her modern headset, the recent message from SATCOM came in with heavy static. “You’re approaching the surface. We predict about twenty minutes to landing.” The young astronaut’s heart began to beat faster. Expedition I, as NASA called it, was the first manned voyage to Mars. As she turned on the lights and the camera system, her helmet’s inch-wide plexiglass refracted the soft glow. As she did so, fifty million people watched her final descent, chanting, “Fern! Fern! Fern!” The screen below her glowed with an ominous aura, displaying numbers and symbols. As she gazed outside, hues of saffron and peachwound themselves through rocky canons and dusty mountains below her. Five digits became four on her altitude meter, and memories flew back to her at a rapid pace. Nine hundred feet. She remembered her father, her biggest supporter. Eight hundred feet. She remembers studying the constellations with him, laughing at his funny explanations for the different shapes. Seven hundred feet. She remembers his smile, him tucking her auburn hair behind her wireframe glasses. Six hundred feet. She remembers skipping rocks, at their beach cottage, and having fun until the sun came up. Five hundred feet. She remembers his cough, how he said it was not bothering him. Four hundred feet. She remembers the hospital bed, how his cough got worse, how the medications weren’t working. Three hundred feet. She remembers the diagnosis, the doctor’s face as somber as a rainy day. Two hundred feet. She remembers his last hug, warmand lovely, his last breath, soft and smooth, and his last words, raspy and slow, “See you in the stars, my dear.”As three digits became two, a tear welled up in her eyes. A thud rocked the bridge. She smiled gently and softly and opened a small box behind her. Creaking lightly, it revealed her agedwooden telescope. As she walked through the airlock and onto the dusty surface, she looked up through the small tube, just as she had those fifty years ago. 32