“I’ll cover graduations and weddings on the port panel,” Dorrie said.
“I’m planning to tackle a street festival after I finish this little league game on the starboard panel,” I said. “And I packed us sandwiches, by the way.”
“Dill?”
“Of course.”
“What should we paint on the ceiling?” Dorrie asked. We were both covered in paint by then, and light-headed from the fumes; the small fan we’d brought to ventilate the tunnel was barely enough to circulate the air.
“I don’t know,” I said. We thought about the ceiling for days afterward, and as we talked to more of the crew, we realized a big part of our lives had been missing from our murals thus far—all the people for whom we had no photos, no proof of their existence except for lingering memories: a lost love, a crush, a coworker, the mailman, a neighbor who you said hello to but never really knew, a bartender who gave you free drinks once in a while for being a loyal customer, people who seemed so peripheral to one’s life yet so incredibly important in the absence of Earth. There was barely a patch of bare steel left on the Yamato when I was forced to return to stasis—only the small panel across from Yumi and one on the command deck that was meant to record our final destination.
Dear Cliff,
In retrospect, all of us—you, Clara, and now me and Yumi—ran toward possibility because we saw no other choice. It’s a wonder that we ever found each other, with all the running around we did. It’s hard to believe any of this was possible—our family, this journey. After news of Clara’s discovery hit the media, conspiracy theories abounded about the tattoos on the Ice Age girl, the carvings on the megalith in the ancient cave. Now that we’re out here, I can’t help but see a star system in the faded ink on that mummified skin. Maybe in the far reaches of space, crazy ideas are perfectly normal. Perhaps if there’s any truth to this, some connection to how this ship travels the stars, Yumi and I will continue on toward possibility even after carving out a new life—we’ll find the world Clara always said she wore around her neck. But, for now, we rest. For now, I want to dream of coming home to you and Clara. I want to wake up to a place where we can properly remember you and everyone that ever was.
Kepler-186f–—582 Light-Years from Earth; Travel Time: 6,000 Years
CONSTELLATION: Cygnus. Home.
ARTIST’S NOTES: Covered with two large continents separated by a shallow ocean and draped with red grassy plains. Tiny horned rodents followed me as I broke away from a survey crew to study the rolling landscape–—the breezes through the crimson willows, the dark soil molded to my boots like foam. From afar, I could see more wildlife gathered around an orange lake, something that looked like a seal with a propeller-like appendage on its head, more horned rodents, a cluster of blimp-like creatures floating above the water like stomachs filled with helium. The first flower picked from a meadow. The first shallow breath outside of my helmet. I’m assured that breathing here will get easier with time. The first landscape painting on our new home.
I awoke earlier than the others, along with the command crew. I’ve been asked to help orient nonessential passengers after their long sleep, to be a welcome party at the end of a long journey. I walked the empty halls, reviewing the past lives Dorrie and I had painted, all the planets that could not harbor us. I stopped at my final painting, finished only minutes before the stasis techs dragged me to my chamber. I was one of the last to go to sleep. A painting occupying the entire wall of my bunk suite: me, Yumi, Cliff, and Clara, arm in arm, staring out at what I imagined to be Kepler from the observation deck. If I looked long enough, I could almost imagine what that moment might be like. Maybe Clara would have said something profound, recited a poem about second chances that she’d written while holding the crystal she always wore. Maybe Cliff would have cried for once, come close to fully understanding our daughter. I would have kissed him and Clara and Yumi. I would have held them tight and told them we made it. I would have guided them through the galleries of Yamato to remember and honor and be grateful before placing our names on the shuttle manifest and breathing in fresh air for the first time in thousands of years.
Dear Yumi,
I can’t wait to show you how far we’ve come. We could have done better, certainly—your mother, us, the world. For a long time, I felt like I failed you. I wished you could have had a full life with all the heartbreak and college drama and shitty jobs we took for granted. But over the past few centuries, I realized I don’t want that for you anymore. Sure, I want you to understand what the world was, but you’re young enough to make this new world your life. A start without regrets and mistakes. A start that will be better because you know how much we used to hurt. Looking at you through your chamber glass, I can see your mother and grandfather in you. And you’ll be bringing the best of them on your journey—their drive and curiosity and quest to unlock the mysteries, to do what’s right. You’ll cry and be uncertain at first. That’s okay. But there’s a whole universe waiting for you. I’ve helped you this far, little one. We helped each other get here. But now, now is your time. It’s time to lead me into the red grass and tell me the story of how we get to be. It’s time to wake up.