Launchpad Mornings
The launchpad smelled faintly of cinnamon toast because I forgot to wipe the crumbs from my tool bag. I traced every rivet on the homemade rocket twice, pencil behind my ear and tail twitching in tempo with the calibrations. A dozen test fires later the thrusters were still sputtering, but the stars were patient with me.
Ignition
I whispered a promise to the moon, flipped the last switch, and the rocket hummed with a glow brighter than the morning sun. Neighbors waved from the street as my capsule rose, the whole town looking like a pocket-sized model I could place on my desk.
“Remember to send postcards,” someone yelled, so I broadcast sketches of the view down to the planet in real time.
Orbit Reflections
The orbit only lasted ninety minutes, but that was enough time to chart three new constellations and fall in love with the silence between them. I drifted home with a journal full of starlight and a promise to build a bigger rocket tomorrow.