A Mom, Far Far Away


SOL 246

May 2044

For Mother's Day, The Passage asked Martian settlers to submit a letter to "a mother on Earth." The following letter was submitted by a young settler who recently immigrated to Mars.


Dear Momma,

The only book I packed was our tattered Goodnight Moon. I run my fingers along the chewed-up spine every night, prey to our little golden Labrador chewed on that nibbled everything in sight.

Goodnight Moon is last thing I read every night before going to bed on this cold planet. I read it for you.

You always used to say that I grew up on Goodnight Moon. You told me that I could change the words to Goodnight Mars, if I wanted to. Now I feel that there is nothing to say goodnight to.


Where is my moon, the moon that I grew up with? My blue clock, my fish shaped coat rack, my wooden toy chest. My warmth under the quilt to which my baby onesies are stitched. 

Where is my star, the stars that glow in the night? My Sorcerer’s Stone, my red Corvette, my piggy bank. My feet grow cold as socks fall into the crevasse near the wall.

Where is my Jeep, the orange car that hopped like a bunny? My belts of color, my spelling trophy, the baseball that hurt. The window stays closed to hold off the snow.

Goodnight nobody.

Shush. You let me say everything. Red was my favorite color, but so was blue. I just couldn’t decide between the two.

Red it was, and now I can’t say goodnight to you.




* * *

Submitted to The Martian Passage by Anonymous.