To You, My Astronaut

Tomorrow you will board a plane,

carrying you further than the eight

hours we share between us now.

Between bites of fluffed pancakes

drenched in syrup, I sang the first

song you, a year ago asked me

if I would echo: it is well with my

soul. I stared ahead, a scarecrow

waving a friendly, permanent smilie.

Tears found their way later, holding

the cat to my chest. I wanted

answer to a question she could

never understand: why does

goodbye seem to hurt worse

when we’re already far apart?

She purred on. Oblivious to how

I wore this purple blanket you left

by accident months ago, around my

waist. Reminding I am royalty,

worth brusing, scrapes, and death.

Chosen by our beloved Father above

to speak life over this sorrow,

wishing me weak. I don’t know how

else to tell you while this moon

captures me outside my

window, I miss you. I pray He loves

you through every person daring bid

you hello. I pray you wow one of

those people with random facts

you happen to pick up. I pray if you

ever feel low and the temptation to

give up hope begs to pursue you,

a garden with orchids, magnolias,

and any other sweet scented flower

finds you. Sit in the rain at least once

and remember how alive our

laughter mingled with the earth. I am

thankful you’ve walked with through

this life with tenderness, grace, and

quietly confessed truth. Here is

another you know so well: I love you.

Dear friend, may Jesus bless, keep,

and shine His face brightly upon you.

May I know this isn’t the end of our

friendship, but another step toward

joy unspeakable.


7 thoughts on “To You, My Astronaut

  1. I love you, Julia. All the airplanes and croissants in the world can’t keep us apart. I’ll see you in nine months. And I promise you at least one international phone call/Skype and at least more than one international letter. ❤

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