By Indigo Rue

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On a lazy mayfly day, we sit on Grandpa Lee’s wrap-around porch, purple-tongued and sticky-fingered from the grape soda and teriyaki jerky he keeps in the pantry because they’re your favorites. 

He cradles you in his rocking chair, kissing your bald, velvety head while you trace constellations in the sunspots that galaxy his arms. You name each shape in sing-song, asking me to play along, but it’s the summer before seventh grade and I’m too old for make-believe. 

“She wants to be a doctor so she can fix me.” You flare your fingers until I give you more jerky—the biggest piece in the bag—which you nibble with baby-bird bites. “What do you wanna be when you grow up, Grampalee?” 

“He’s already grown,” I say.

“But there’s always more up, up, up!” You point to the sky. “That’s why I’m gonna be an astronaut.”

I whisper the truth into my soda can so I don’t get in trouble for making you cry again.

Grandpa’s rocking chair glides with a rumble-whisper over the porch wood, and the starlings in the walnut tree chitter, sparkle-bright. When Grandpa finally speaks, I can’t tell if it’s the truth or another one of his pretends, just for you: “Me too.”

~

The next morning, Grandpa posts a sign on his front door: Lee Aeronautics.

“What’s A—?” You chew on the word, too big for your six-year-old mouth. “A-ear-on—”

I help you sound it out, pointing out each syllable—“”Arrow. Not. Icks”—but Grandpa scoops you up and raspberries your tummy before you can get it right. Your giggle is butterfly-happy and so soft it tickles me too.

“It means we’re astronauts,” he says. “We’re gonna turn this house into a starship!” He zooms you through the door.

The front room is a tornado mess, birthday streamers and Christmas lights rainbowing the walls. He sets you down on his lazy chair, covered in a crinkle-gold blanket, and you pill bug yourself into the worn-out middle of the cushion. 

Grandpa empties the fishbowl display of its fancy shells, some falling to the floor, but he’s too busy plopping the bowl over your head to notice. I pick the delicate spirals out of the carpet threads as your voice bubbles out under the bowl: “To the stars!”

~

The recliner becomes your captain’s chair, and even on your shiver-sick days, Daddy has to carry you from our house across the street because it’s the only spot where you’ll take your medicine without a fuss. 

You assign us all tasks: I’m the ship’s doctor and Grandpa’s the head of engineering.

He builds you a control panel with flimsy-thin plywood boards and glow-in-the-dark star stickies outlined in marker. Pillows are stacked up against every wall as plasma shields. To the kitchen door, he attaches a giant tin foil-wrapped cardboard box labeled Air Lock, and every time we use it, we have to suit up with at least three layers of blankets. 

“Astronaut training,” you say. 

When you starburst your hand, my job is to feed you pieces of teriyaki jerky and sips of grape soda—your “vitamins”—until you fill your fishbowl with fizzy purple chunks of meat.

“Don’t worry, kiddo—” Grandpa pats you on the back. “Just a little zero-gravity oops.”

I rush the bowl to the kitchen. 

“Wait,” you sniffle-speak, “you have to suit up first!”

“Three blankets,” Grandpa adds. “At least.”

I turn back with a stomp. “No!” I yell, and I don’t care that you start to cry. “It’s not real.” I rip a purple streamer because it’s your favorite color. “You’ll never see the stars because you’ll be d—”

“Hey.” Grandpa Lee puts his hand on my shoulder, takes your puke-helmet from my hand, and sets it aside. “I know. I know.” He holds me, rocking me side to side while I cry. “You don’t have to pretend if you don’t want to.”

~

The next day you’re too sick to play. Because I’m sorry, I promise to go to Grandpa Lee’s and bring back some soda for you. The morning clouds hang low and gray-green: tornado weather, except the air is thick and static. As the porch wood creaks, my skin tingles like electric ants biting the tiny hairs on my arms and I know—I know before I knock on the door, before I peek through the window, before I see him crumpled on the living room floor like one of Daddy’s worn socks…

~

“We gotta do the countdown.” I shake you awake, whispering so that Daddy doesn’t hear. “Now.” 

“What?” Your eyes are crusted with sleep.

“Grandpa Lee’s ready to take off.”

“Without us?” Your lips quiver, grape-soda violet. “When’s he coming back?”

“He’s…” I swallow the truth, for Grandpa, for you. “The stars…they’re not a place you come back from.”

You nod once, and I think you understand, maybe better than I do. Then, you monkey your arms around my neck and I lift you up.  

“I’ll see Grampalee in the stars someday soon,” you say.

~

We stand across the street from Grandpa Lee’s house. The empty rocking chair sits still on his wrap-around porch. 

I squeeze my eyes shut until I can see stars. “Ten,” I yell. “Nine.”

“Eight.” You join in. 

“Se-seven.” My throat twists. You grip my hand. “Six.” With each number, I push my voice louder and louder just because it hurts. “Five. Four. Three.” Grandpa’s rocking chair sways. The starlings scatter from the walnut tree. “Two.” Pebbles popcorn on the pavement. “One.” 

“Blast off!” I can’t hear us scream over the thunder-boom. I can’t see his house through my tear-smoked eyes. I tumble backward, pulling you with me onto the lawn. 

Beside me, starfished on the grass, you point your finger to a sunbeamed splinter of sky.

I can’t tell if it’s the truth, or his last pretend just for us, but through the break in the clouds, Grandpa Lee’s house rockets up…up…up…