I Missed My Son

Mister, were you frightened when you stood upon the moon? Not then. Fear is very punctual. Mine arrived years later. They had polished my old helmet for the children in the hall. There were planets made of paper, silver footprints on the wall. A boy in row three raised his hand, the way my David used to do, with his elbow locked beside his ear until the teacher called him through. He asked if I could see my house from where the lander stood. I said, “No homes. No roads. No names. Just oceans, cloud and blue.” Then I remembered David waving at our television screen, sure his father, from the heavens, could see everything. I saw weather cross the continents. I saw sunrise without sound. But a little hand against the glass was too small to make out. I saw the whole world, but I missed my son. Counted every second till the mission had been won. They said, “Welcome home, commander,” when my boots touched solid ground. But coming back and coming home are not the same way down. I saw the whole world, but I missed my son. After quarantine came Houston, then a motorcade in Rome, then a hundred hotel pillows with a card that said “Welcome home.” David built a cardboard rocket, painted both our names in red. I promised I would launch it when the speeches finally ended. The speeches did not end. Men with cameras found more rooms. Someone pinned a medal on me. Someone planned another moon. At twelve he stopped asking. At sixteen he learned to drive. At thirty-two he mailed me a family pass—his girl turned five. I saw the whole world, but I missed my son. Knew the names of distant craters, not the man he had become. They said, “Give us one more story.” I gave every room a round. But coming back and coming home are not the same way down. I saw the whole world, but I missed my son. How far away is the moon? Two hundred thirty-eight thousand nine hundred miles. More or less. What was the longest trip you ever made? Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes from my front gate to the house where David lived. Four traffic lights. One left at Miller's pharmacy. I knew the route. His daughter turned seven on a Tuesday. My jacket lay across the bed. The family pass sat in my pocket. I rehearsed the things I'd say. Then Mission Control called for a comment. Some anniversary piece. I told myself a child has birthdays; history only calls once. That is a lie important men tell themselves until nobody interrupts them. When I finally made that journey, David met me by the door. He did not shout. He handed me a crayon moon his daughter drew at four. Beneath it she had written, in letters leaning out of line: “Grandpa lives up in the sky. Daddy says he has no time.” I saw the whole world, but I lost my son. Not beyond an ocean, not to something death had done. I lost him twenty minutes from the medals and the crowds, while coming back and coming home kept meaning different things somehow. So if someone waits to launch with you, do not make them count alone. There are journeys praised by everyone that only lead you from your own. I saw the whole world. I could not see my son. Would you go again? My granddaughter saved that seat beside her. She brought the cardboard rocket. Her father did not come. Would I go again? No.