On this particular day, Mom allowed my brother and I to eat
our cereal in front of the TV. We were kids raised on Star Wars & E.T. - space travel held a prized place in our imaginary lives and here it was
actually happening. This shuttle launch felt both epic and tangible, after the
announcement that a non-astronaut, a teacher, would be part of the mission. At
one time Uncle Tom, a science teacher, had been in consideration. I had a
framed patch on my wall proving I was part of the NASA fan club.
The preparations began. A room full of serious men turned
serious knobs. Massive rockets pressed against the sky. Announcers prattled in excited
monotone. Mom got my lunch ready for school. And we slurped our cheerios and
milk. T minus 21 seconds.
A simple count down could build excitement in even my
brother, who had just begun to master his numbers. Mom came in the room. The
numbers moving backwards surprisingly quick. At four the rockets primed. Clouds
unfurled. Three. Two. One. And lift off. Up it went. An unseen hand pulled it
skyward. The cameras pulled back. The shuttle cleared the towers, pushing
higher and higher into the endless blue. The camera’s struggled to keep up. A
scientists muttered jargon into the radio. For 73 seconds we stared into this
transcendent act. And then it was gone. Suddenly no different than the trail of
clouds behind it.
The explosion happened in silence, propulsive but soft. We
were bewildered. Where did it go? We asked our mom – where did it go? The
announcer didn’t know what to say. The scientist didn’t know what to say. Where
did it go? The man-made clouds spelled out the shapes of flowers. Where did it go?
