And yet I know, unerringly, where I am in relationship to my mother’s house. Right now, it’s five hundred miles away over my right shoulder. If I go to the kitchen, it’s sort of off my left side, but angled back to the right. I wouldn’t trust this sense to lead me out of so much as a brushy thicket. But it’s always there.
The one year I participated in Brownies, some woman named Artie gave us a lesson on the compass and set us on a treasure hunt. My buddy had no use for me and added herself to another pair. I took the compass, turned the base around until the arrow pointed in the direction I wanted to go, and headed for home. Fifteen minutes later, Artie found me pacing along a dry creek bed and chewed me out for leaving. She didn’t understand that my buddy ditched me, not the other way around, or that I didn’t like the raisins that were supposed to be our prize. I didn’t understand that just because I’d made the compass arrow point southwest, that didn’t mean I was walking southwest, or why she thought it so important that I go east. And I didn’t even try to explain that I’d chosen that direction because I wanted my own bed, not some tent.
I wonder if this same pull applies to astronauts. Do they feel this connected to their origins? If they passed through space-time into a dimension where the natives could make money rain up from their hands, would they still experience that tiny cord? How far extends Earth’s gravity?
Trifecta is having fun with the urban dictionary this week, so I got all nostalgic and weird. I appear capable of doing funny right up until someone suggests it. Let it rain people.
Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.