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Zero Gravity
The dry basin of the moon must have held the bones of a race, radiant minerals, or something devoid of genesis, angel-heavy, idea-pure. All summer we had waited for it, our faces off-blue in front of the TV screen. Nothing could be more ordinary—two figures digging dirt in outer space—while mother repeated Neil Armstrong’s words, like a prayer electronically conveyed. The dunes were lit like ancient silk, like clandestine pearl. In the constant lunar night this luminescence was all we hoped for. A creature unto itself, it poured into the room like a gradual flood of lightning, touching every object with the cool burn of something not quite on fire. If we stepped out Manila would be blank ether, way station, a breathless abeyance. It didn’t matter, at that moment, where our lives would lead: father would disown one brother, one sister was going to die. Not yet unhappy, we were ready to walk on the moon. Reckless in our need for the possible, we knew there was no turning back, our bags already packed, the future a religion we could believe in.