Pale Blue

Pale Blue

I hadn’t really noticed before. I had never really looked.

My skirt was a riot of pattern and colors, like stars in the sky — dots of white, cream, pale yellow, and pink so soft it was almost white.

One of the dots was pale blue.

Further from home than anyone had ever been, it turned to take the photo.

History was made that day.

History is made every day.

And every day that every human had ever lived, was lived here —

on this planet, traveling through space.

My thoughts were interrupted by the announcement that my station was coming up.

I put my phone in my bag and stood, feeling the skirt drape around my legs.

That’s why I had bought it — for the feel of the fabric, not the pattern, not the blue dot.

I was close to home, fortunate that it was within walking distance of the station.

I hadn’t realized before how different sitting in the train was from stepping out, back into the world.

The quiet of the almost empty carriage, the soft air conditioning, the artificial lights (even during the day) — all contrasted immediately with the reality outside.

The wind hit me, causing my skirt to cling to my legs before being flung off again in the next blast.

Like you were flung off this Earth.

It would be poetic to say “with the power of a thousand suns.”

But it wasn’t nuclear energy that pushed you away.

It was the hope of a thousand minds and hearts.

I was too young when you left to know you even existed,

starting your long, long voyage — out into the dark, all alone.

When you took photos of planets,

I had my own life to live — and didn’t care, didn’t understand.

As I walked past the park, the pesky wind blew leaves down from the trees, covering the sidewalk in front of me.

A bird flew, almost sideways in the wind, and I could hear voices nearby, and in the distance, a dog barked.

No matter how fast you go, you won’t feel the wind against your metal skin —

not out there.

Just a lot of — nothing.

It’s too much for my mind to comprehend.

I mean, I understand it — or think I do.

I can imagine it, maybe.

But no, it’s too big, too different from my own experience.

One step and then another, careful not to slip on the leaves.

You pushed off the Earth like a swimmer pushes off the side of the pool —

and when you reached Jupiter, you pushed off again, gaining speed.

The light was starting to fade as I crossed the road.

The cement curbs were pale against the dark bitumen.

Here, between the buildings, the wind had died down,

and there was just a gentle feeling of air moving against my skin.

I don’t remember feeling it so — completely — before.

I put my hand to my face, feeling my fingers against my cheek as I stepped up onto the sidewalk.

It wasn’t until years after the photo was taken that I paid attention.

It showed up on social media, and, typically, people yelled “Fake!”

But it made me stop, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I looked online for other images and found the story behind the taking of the photo.

One man, with great forethought, said, “Turn her. Take the photo.”

Another must have said something like, “It’s not like we can refuel.”

And the Great Man said, “We will never have this chance again.”

So they thought about it, and they sent the command.

And when you received it, you turned and looked back to where you had come from —

so far away, just visible.

Obediently, you took the photo and sent it home.

The photo that showed where everything in history had happened.

The photo that showed the entire human race —

small, almost invisible in the frame — but still there.

Somewhere on that pale blue dot,

I was there.

Invisible, but there,

in the greatest family portrait ever taken.

From where you were, you could see no people, no countries, no wars.

You couldn’t see hate in that photo.

But you could see love.

Yeah, I cried when I first realized what that photo meant.

All of us, everyone, on this one small planet.

It’s all we have — so tiny, so surrounded by dark.

It should have changed everything.

It should have changed everything!

And maybe, in some people’s lives, it did.

It changed me — briefly.

Very briefly, I saw things differently.

When I went to the café, I looked at people, really looked,

and for the first time, I wondered what their lives were like.

But then I went back inside my own life —

worrying about an unexpected bill,

thinking ahead to a concert,

singing my favorite song as I cooked myself dinner.

For a while, I forgot about the pale blue dot.

I forgot to think about the other people living with me on this,

our only planet.

Until the day on the train.

And my skirt.

Now I am home.

Not just at my door —

but on my planet.

The beautiful blue planet —

mostly water,

mostly people,

mostly life in so many varieties.

Like the bird fighting the wind that had made me smile.

Like the people in the park, heard but not seen.

The dog barking in the distance, ignored but present.

Everything that had ever happened,

had happened on the pale blue dot.

Everyone who had ever lived,

lived here.

Maybe one day that will change.

Maybe one day we will be a multi-planet race.

Maybe Voyager — or something like her — will find we are not alone.

I climbed the stairs to my door,

and, as I put the key in the lock,

I turned and looked up at the sky

and saw that one star had come out.

***

With gratitude to Carl Sagan, who understood what the rest of us almost missed — and insisted that we turn to see it.