Final Log of a Stranded Astronaut—by William Helms

 It has been 11 months since I lost contact and 13 days since I had to leave the ship

I float eternally. The stars gaze up at me, waiting for me to join them, and I realize what my biggest wish is. Months ago it would have been to see my husband and family again, to hear them call my name, to see the color green, or to taste a piece of candy; now I don’t want any of that. I’ve forgotten their faces and their voices.

Now, what I want more than anything in the world is to take off this cramped helmet and see the stars with my own real eyes. I’ll live for about twelve seconds afterward. For the first time in months, I will spend twelve whole seconds without this helmet. I’ll see the emptiness not through a stale glass visor but with my own human eyes. Those will be the last, most beautiful twelve seconds of my life.

The pressure lock located where my helmet meets the rest of my body disengages. I stare up and down, sideways and everywhere at the frothy clusters of stars, and of other earths around me.

Here in the vacuum, I am not alone.

For twelve final seconds, I am surrounded by life.