The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

Lost in Space Diane Payne A word disappears. A memory appears. For no reason, I wonder if my former fifth grade students remember the day we gathered around the TV that was ours to use because we had written so many letters to Christa McAuliffe and completed so many NASA activities. We applauded and hollered the moment that Challenger took off, then wept moments later after it exploded and we knew everyone was dead, dead like the year I rode my bike 50 miles to my grandfather’s funeral, and when I went into the basement of the church to change my clothes, I saw three people close to my age doing the final touches on Grandpa, and one guy had him propped up and moved his hand toward the girl’s breasts, as if he was a dirty old groper, which he most certainly never was, and I stood outside the room watching them move Grandpa’s arms toward the girl while they laughed and pretended Grandpa was a dirty old man, but Grandpa probably hadn’t said a sexy word to my grandmother in years, maybe never, because he liked to talk about growing tomatoes, the Detroit Tigers, and reminding me that I’d never get a husband if I kept going to the library to get so many books to read. 90 The Meadow