Last night, I dreamt of the spacemen in Fiddler’s Green.

I heard them floating outside my house—their suits creaking like branches in the wind, visors tapping against my windowpane—lost forever in the darkness of space.

I imagine their bodies, frozen in near zero, or else planted on some distant planet, destined to form part of some strange alien tree.

I looked for you, afraid I’d find you among them.

Ever since you left I’ve dreaded the thought of having to take your picture and place it alongside the images of your heroes, your comrades in the forest—just like so many other red-eyed widows and widowers, arriving here on their pilgrimage of mourning, have done before me. But you weren’t there.