Nostalgia is an Illusion

Dr. Sean Dalton sits by the porthole as the space station orbits the Earth for the 483rd time. This shift has been a long one. The curvature of England's south coast is visible through the domed acrylic. Home is down there, and so is she. It is 3 days until his return.

He pushes himself from the wall with his feet, and his chair rolls on its wheels to a nearby desk. He clicks the mouse, and a video plays.

"Hi, Sean. Hope everything is going well up there. I miss you lots. I read in the garden today. I like it out there because I can sense you above me. Looking forward to April. I love you."

The room returns to silence, and Dalton smiles. He scans the room, left to right. The kitchen area is neatly arranged. A whiteboard covers the wall opposite. By it is a shelf full of books, and to the shelf's right is a chessboard, midgame. In the far corner of the room is his bed. He scans again: kitchen, whiteboard, chessboard, bed, before walking over to the sink and moving a glass safely away from the edge of the surface. 

The whiteboard is covered with equations and numbers, some scribbled out, some not. With the underside of a clenched fist, he wipes clean the lower right corner and begins writing. After four hours, he stops, thinks of her, and goes to bed.

Dalton awakes and lets out a sigh as he stares at the ceiling. It is aligned with six rows of eight small hatches. Behind each is a sample exposed to the cold vacuum of space. Some samples are organic, some inorganic, and have been retrieved from Earth. Some samples originate in comets, meteors, nearby planets, and moons. He counts along each row with a nod at every hatch before sitting up and lifting himself out of bed. Opening a freezer door, he takes out a bottle of frozen orange juice before walking to the computer and sitting down. He wiggles the mouse and clicks play.

"Hi, Sean. Happy birthday, up there in space. I wish you weren't up there on your own. When you get back, we will celebrate turning 30 with a bang. I baked a cake, and we made a toast to your hard work. Counting down the days to April. I love you."

The room falls silent, and the screen is still. She is beautiful. Her bright red hair and green eyes set the screen ablaze. Dalton opens a drawer, takes out a tub of sleeping pills, and shakes them. He returns them to the drawer and closes it. It is two days until his return.

Dalton rises from his desk. A ladder is fitted on a track beneath the ceiling hatches. He pushes it up the track to hatch 6:7. After climbing the ladder, he flips a switch enclosing the sample outside in a transparent casing before opening the hatch. On a titanium platform is a rock-like sample. It is cracked throughout. Dalton gazes through the dome into deep space for several minutes and then picks up the sample.

"Deterioration already. Hmmm," he mutters to himself. Placing the sample back on the platform, he closes the hatch and flips the switch, again exposing the sample to space.

After several hours of scribbling in his notebook, detailing his observations, Dalton looks up and scans the room. Kitchen, bookshelf, chessboard, bed, hatches, window. England is coming into view for the 484th time. He imagines her reading in the garden. It is a pleasant image. But he also imagines her with Scott, lying with Scott. He scans the room again and clicks play on the computer screen.

"Hi, Sean. Happy 2024. Mum is here. She was sad you weren't around for New Year, but she knows how important your stuff up there is. I miss you lots. I am counting down the days until April. I love you."

The room falls silent, and the screen is still. She is wearing the same dress she wore on their fifth wedding anniversary. It is green, a different hue to her eyes, but this only brightens them against her face. Dalton turns back to his notebook and writes nostalgia is an illusion. He smiles and decides to sleep.

Dalton awakes and stares at hatch 4:3. He climbs out of bed and takes a bottle of frozen orange juice from the freezer. He climbs the ladder at 4:3, flips the switch, and opens the hatch. He inspects a slab of volcanic rock resting on the titanium plate. It glistens in the starlight. Picking it up, he rubs his fingers against its smooth surface. "Still going strong," he mutters before closing the hatch and walking to the porthole. England is in view for the 485th time. He pictures his home and his garden, and he imagines her reading. He sees her with Scott but scans the room, and she is alone again. Walking over to the whiteboard, he writes plasticity is frozen, then rubs it out. He returns to his desk and clicks another video.

"Hey, Sean. You can tell by my face what I am about to say. I have met somebody. Scott is a good man, and I do love him. I'm sorry. You are an amazing person, but I need you here. We both need to live the life we want. We can sort things when you get back, but I have made up my mind." 

It is one day until his return. 

He scans the room and thinks of her and his return to Earth. On leave, her absence is real. Up here, in his vacuum, the world is static. Thirty days on leave are hell, but a month's sleeping pills and a hotel room are sanctuary. Close the outside world out and wait for the return to orbit. Nostalgia is an illusion. He goes to his bed and sleeps.

Dalton awakes, immediately rising from his bed. Today, he returns to Earth. He takes an orange juice from the freezer and places it by the sink. Through the porthole, his transport is approaching. He folds the chess board, allowing the pieces to fall and roll to the middle and stuffs it in a rucksack. He walks to the sink, picks up the orange juice, and sits in the chair by his desk. He takes the sleeping pills out of the drawer and puts them in the rucksack. Scanning the room, kitchen, whiteboard, bed, and ceiling, he drinks the orange juice and clicks play on a video.

"Hi, Sean. Happy birthday, up there in space. I wish you weren't up there on your own. When you get back, we will celebrate turning 30 with a bang. I baked a cake, and we made a toast to your hard work. Counting down the days to April. I love you."

Dalton ponders his past and the complexity of nostalgia. He recounts his carefree days in college and doesn't recognize himself. He recalls his wild days as a bartender up Kingston Street in his early 20s and shudders at its unfamiliarity. Traveling through Thailand, Indonesia, and onto Bali. That mindset doesn't align. The brain is plastic. The man he is now, with the brain he houses now, cannot be reconciled with who he was. It brings discomfort that he shakes away with his shoulders. But the ten years spent married to her are different. Up here, the day-to-day is the same as before. Up here, roughly 250 miles away from her, with only videos at hand, the relationship had functioned as always. Plasticity frozen in time. The transporter docks outside.

England is in the window for the 486th and final time of the trip. Nostalgia is an illusion. Up here, she is everything. Down there, she WAS everything. Dalton hears the docking bay depressurize. He places his palm on the porthole window and whispers, "Goodbye."

The main entrance door clicks and the pilot enters. "Hey Dr. Dalton, ready for home?"

"Of course, Mr. Stevens. Ready as always," Dalton replies.

"Good, good. Are you ready for Dr. Symonds debriefing?"

Dr. Symonds enters behind Stevens. "You don't need to ask that, Stevens. Dr. Dalton never leaves a stone unturned. How are you, Sean? I hear this will be your last trip up here."

"I'm afraid so, Dr. Symonds," Dalton replies. "They won't let us up here after we turn 80. Policy of the Space Corps."

"That's too bad. You have been invaluable. Still, you must be excited about spending your retirement in the real world?"

Dalton smiles. "Yes, I think I'll take it one decade at a time."