All the Way to Freaking Jupiter
Laura Huggins
One night, I looked up at the sky,
and saw past the moon,
past the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia,
all the way to Jupiter.
Jupiter.
I saw Jupiter from where my feet were planted
on the deck of a dock,
smack dab in the middle of Olympic National Park.
I laid myself down beside my teacher in the dark,
and felt bad every time I broke the whooshing silence,
shivering from cold
and bubbling over with excitement.
I marveled aloud,
incredulous that my very unextraordinary human eyes
could peer into the depths of our
miniscule modicum of the Universe.
I had never felt so simultaneously significant
and insignificant in my entire life.
My eyes were seeing this.
My ears were hearing the muted thrum of an inky evening,
and the hushed awe of the souls around me.
And my brain was going Supernova, because
holy shit. I can peer into
the inner workings of the Milky Way
without a telescope.
My back pressed harder into the chilled, solid surface
of a dock that was built on my Earth,
and I let myself get lost.
Soon, I would return to my body.
My city,
my house,
my school.
None of it would be perfect.
But it would still be mine.
And I would still be able to see all the way to freaking Jupiter with my bare eyes.
Licton Springs Review 2015 