HOME
By
Daniel Skye
“What are those again, papa?” the boy
asked, pointing to the flickering lights that seemed to float above them. He
asked with the inquisitive temperament that only an overexcited child could
possess. He was eager to learn from his father.
“Those are stars,” the man explained
to his son again. “Little balls of light that fill up the entire galaxy.”
“And what’s that big ball of light in
the distance?”
“That’s the sun, which is also a star
if you can believe that.”
“And what’s that over there, papa?”
The boy’s tiny finger extended towards a huge floating sphere that was a swirl
of blue, white, and green.
“You’re too young to remember this,
but that’s where you were born, son. That’s Earth. We all lived there at the
one point. The whole colony did. You, me, your mother, Uncle Fred, your friend
Jody. That was our home.”
“How come we don’t live there anymore,
papa?”
“Because we took it all for granted.
We polluted the atmosphere, poisoned the planet. And during the Big War, it all
got blown to hell. Nuclear radiation covered ninety percent of the Earth. All
survivors had to be evacuated.”
“So when can we return home, papa?”
“Never. Earth is gone. Yesterday’s
news. This is our home now, son. But you know what?”
“No,” the boy said. “Tell me.”
“We don’t need the old world. We can
survive here. We can make this work. As long as we believe. Believe.” He
repeated the word a few more times before he trailed off, uncertain if he was
trying to convince his son or himself.
No comments:
Post a Comment