The Astronaut
Heath Huang liked April because it was the month that he and his wife had gotten married forty years prior in 2020. Yes, their love, shining in the pandemic. He was always bad about remembering the exact day. But he knew it was unequivocally April.
Right?
It was April, right?
Yes. Because that was his mother’s middle name before she replaced it with her maiden name. Eloise April Friedman. This name was important, yes. He wanted to get everything right.
Heath blinked in the April sun, trying to remember why he was outside. Thrushes of the swaying plants on the starboard side of his plot of milkweed plants were being chewed to absolute bits by caterpillars. A cloud of orange and white and black butterflies swayed in heavenly arcs above him.
“Hello beautifuls,” Heath said. “I have a little something for you.”
And he looked at his hands and wow, yes, he did have something in his hands. It was a large plastic jar that had once been a bargain tub of cheez puffs, which he could only recall because there was still a label describing it as such. The tub was now a slow-drip fountain for the flying tigers; he had apparently affixed it with an automated stopper that let out a small pool of sugar water. What a good idea that had been. He set the butterfly drink on a small table he must have brought out earlier for this express purpose and watched for a few minutes as the butterflies danced for a drink. That was nice.
Heath stretched his arms above his head and looked up at the clear blue Tennessee sky. Great weather here, could launch a rocket any day with airspace like this. Not like in Florida.
Florida. Hmm. Had he lived there? Why would he even wonder that? Did Florida still exist? He didn’t remember ever not being here in Tennessee with his wife Eloise and their funny little house with too many eaves.
He was hungry, so he went back inside.
In the kitchen, Heath began putting together a sandwich. He was very proud of his sandwiches. The trick was to dark toast the bread and to be generous with a mayo-based sauce and to be conscious of layering the contents and to add some crisps for a crunch. Okay, that was a lot of tricks but that was how a good sandwich was made.
Heath Huang was just about to enjoy his turkey, basil aioli, Boston lettuce, fresh tomato, and white cheddar sandwich with sweet potato chips when he heard a clattering noise from the front room.
Damn meth heads. They weren’t going to break into his house and rob him. Not him, the first Chinese American to be a Space Force Brigadier General. (He had been in the Space Force...?) He took his serrated tomato knife and charged into the hallway, shouting a strangled noise that he imagined an angry monkey would make.
But the meth head was standing there with a laundry basket and picking up a bottle of detergent. Why would the meth head do his laundry…? The meth head smiled at him and said, “Making sandwiches, Dad?”
Heath frowned. “Yes, what business is it of yours?”
The meth head scratched his head with a free thumb. He looked familiar but Heath couldn't place him. Why would he be friends with a meth head? He didn’t really look like a meth head but he must have been. Heath had read about how desperate these kids were, breaking in and robbing old people so they could have money for drugs.
The meth head replied, “Well, I’m pretty hungry, too. Could you make one for me? Yours are always the best.”
Heath was not sure he liked this meth head’s strategy very much but he did make the best sandwiches, and he figured meth heads deserved to eat, too. “Fine, fine, do you want ham or turkey?” Heath replied, waving the knife in his hand like he was conducting an orchestra.
Ellie had liked the orchestra. She loved music. That’s why she had been so happy when they had been stationed in D.C. for a while, because they had great music there. And that’s where Thomas was born. Heath wondered how Thomas was; he hadn’t seen his son in a while. Had they sent Thomas to boarding school? He would have to ask Ellie when she came back from the store. She had been at the store a long time.
He made the meth head a sandwich, and couldn’t recall if the kid had said he had said he wanted ham or turkey so he gave him a little bit of both.
Something fluttered in the corner of his vision, so he glanced up and out of the kitchen window. And saw something beautiful! A cloud of Monarch butterflies, Danaus plexippi! Damn, they looked absolutely beautiful. Earth was so beautiful. He had always dreamed of seeing Earth from space but he had only ever seen it from the ground. And that was okay because the ground of this earth was so beautiful.
He rushed outside to his backyard.
Ah, the April sun. Beautiful out here. He liked April because it didn’t rain too much. And he liked it for another reason. What was it? He was having a hard time remembering a lot of things lately. He felt his heart clench, the anxiety he always tried to ignore building and cresting in his chest. But then he saw his ocean of flowers that he had planted for the butterflies and the bees. And the air was a flood with butterflies and bees. They had saved the butterflies and the bees. He had saved the butterflies and the bees. There were so many butterflies and bees.
He focused on how the flowers wavered in the breeze and kissed each other in the sun, and he took a deep breath. Everything would be all right.
