"Ma'am? Are you ready to board?"
I had seated myself in a cold row of spaceport chairs that were facing out towards the ship. Sleek and long, it echoed those old SP7s, for looks, of course, and not for aerodynamics. The sun sunk behind our shuttle slowly until its rays flared red, and I could no longer stare out through the Plexiglas. I held one hand in the other and examined my wrinkled palm, the scar across my lifeline, and the burn on the knuckle of my ring finger from trying to use that insta-oven my son had installed in the kitchen last year. I rotated the wedding band twice loosening it from the clammy sweat.
To my left, a couple was irritatingly entwined. A honeymoon side trip, perhaps. What was I doing here with all these vibrant contemporaries? I felt like a fossil, shriveled and dry, ready to crumble in the face of an awesome G-force. A trip to the moon: first-class seating, great accomodations, and a full yet relaxing schedule. It was a gift from my grandchildren for my seventy-ninth birthday. They knew it had always been my dream to watch the Earth rise from the moon.
I shut my eyes and leaned back against the chilly plastic chair imagining the trip. Would it be like the roller coasters of my youth? I could feel the shiver of the straps against my chest and my skull tapping the headrest. But where was my childish wonder? All I felt now was the timid beat of my weakened heart resounding.
And now the Boarding Assistant had walked back towards me, his arm outstretched to walk me through the terminal, questioning.
In desperation, my eyes met his, and I answered...