Capitalism And Outer Space

We were going to go to the Space Center today, and it would definitely have been neat. The last time I went to one, it was in Florida, and I remember looking over my head and pointing out the rusty orange and white rockets. That year I was seven, maybe not even.

Sometimes I think about being a third-generation engineer, and being in a family of engineers. It's like being born in a family of bakers, or cobblers or blacksmiths or tailors, except without a long term of apprenticeships. I was born predisposed to math, to science, born with my parents expecting that I follow their footsteps, if not completely then at least partially, into the scientific world.

My dad is lying on the bed now, snoring. A while after I got off the plane, maybe when we were in the car coming back from the airport, he turned to me and said, "It's still not too late if you want to change your mind and be a doctor." My mom says this sometimes too, in that joking yet all the same serious tone, "Are you sure you don't want to be a doctor?"

I tell them, "Yes, I'm sure. I want to be an engineer."

For people who come from this life they are not satisfied with it. They have worked hard, all their lives, fought against the waves of unfair disadvantages at an age where they should have had things under control and relaxed a little. They see people around them in seemingly easier lives, people who earn more (and money has always been an issue in our house), and they want that life for me, whether directly or vicariously.

. . .

These days, my dad spends a lot more. We went to the mall today, everywhere we go we look at the dazzling new clothes and bags and jewelry. He picks something out of the pile, points at it and asks, "What do you think?"

I shake my head. It is the wrong color, the wrong texture, or something, any excuse. He goes over to the stands of watches, stoops down and try to find the same style as the one on his wrist. That one he bought a few days ago. The strap is still too loose; it hangs low. He smiles when he realizes it is more expensive than the one he bought.

I am happy for him, proud, almost, that he is finally achieving the middle-class lifestyle he always wanted, yet also sad. There is something about the way he walks, shorter than ever before, that scares me. I am afraid that he won't be happy, I am afraid that he might lose this, I am afraid that after all these years of struggles he will look back and think, "What have I done with my life?"

And come up empty. I am afraid for him, even though he himself is not afraid. I am being paranoid again.

He walks up to the cosmetics counter. I watch as he talks with the sales lady, the two of them discussing the new brand of anti-aging cream available. He looks at the price and chuckles, shakes his head. "It's too expensive." And we leave. I wonder if he ever wishes he could afford this, for his wife, if he ever laments his inability to buy everything he wants for his family. I wonder if anyone will, in the future, do the same for me.

. . .

He woke up just now. Held my hand. Earlier today he had said, "The days pass by really quickly." He is going back in less than a week, to the misty southwestern Chinese city, while my mom stays with her parents until after Chinese New Years.

I am not sure what I want. In a few days I will be leaving too, heading back to icy Islandtown by myself. But in a few days I will be a few more days closer until Khajiit comes back. Those last few days, however, will be void of both, and they will be long and torturous.

. . .

In a few days, we will be headed somewhere. To the Gulf, maybe, or to Dallas or Austin, we are not sure yet. I am supposed to be the one planning all of this, but I have been way too distracted. When I wake up in the morning, I add up the hours to see if Khajiit will be awake, then I call him, and we cycle between being awake and being away and all of the other complicatedness of us being in different continents.

For example, right now, it is 8pm here, which means it is 3am over there, and way too early to call him.

He sent me photos of Paris today, and I really liked them, especially the one of the details on the Eiffel Tower, and the one where he is eating smoked salmon. Smoked salmon has other connotations for me, it reminds me of a summer that could have been had there not been other obligations, other obstacles.

They are all of the past now, although I still have the souvenirs. I still have a lot more I need to clean through before all the vestiges are gone, if that is even possible. I took out the wallet photo the other day. I had already changed the lockscreen image on my phone.

There are some clothes that need to be exchanged, photos returned, books taken back. We had really tried to make ourselves part of each other's lives, even though (and maybe even more so because) we could not be involved in person. I look at the calendar I now share with Khajiit, and it is almost empty, and that does not make me wonder because I know he will be with me, and those days he will not be are not for long.

. . .

My dad is considering moving back to the US again. My mom will surely follow him if he does. I may see them more often now. Maybe one day they will even settle, and I will visit them, just as other people visit their parents, without the hassle of trying to remember where they have ended up this time around. Although I will miss seeing new airports. I have seen many airports in my life and I am hoping to see more.