100 Years Project Anthology

of poorly-painted shelves stacked high with sci-fi and astronomy
books and navy beanbags, I reach my canopy, hosting my wonderful
telescope. I sit, and as usual, I go to my telescope and gaze through,
at the endless sky littered with stars. The moon peers through the
cold clouds, resembling an owl peeking out of a hollow tree, I think.
I smile and am happy to feel the presence of him – the man on the
moon.
As usual, I tell him the limited contents of my day. Telling
him for over three years every aspect of my life isn’t easy. He
knows, of course, about my mother confining me home due to her
permanent certainty that coronavirus still lurks in the school. I told
him all about what happened to her, how the pandemic ruined her,
how my dad’s disappearance destroyed her mind. I told him how I’d
tried everything, but nothing would ever seem to work.
She stopped screaming bloody murder anytime I didn’t wash
my hands thoroughly (for five minutes, with specific soap and a
strange powder developed after the pandemic) after a while. She’d
improve a little, and then just worsen. Nothing worked. But it wasn’t
the fear of the virus, or the losing of her job, or the debt we fell into
in 2020. It was my father, and the man on the moon got an earful of
this.
It seemed that both of my parents had faded into eternal skies,