My earliest memory was of my mother, watching our tiny black and white television. Transfixed by the drama of Apollo 13, her eyes burned wet and bright reflecting tense newscasters and rooms full of jostling scientists. Her breath hitched as the command module splashed down in the Pacific Ocean. “Remember this, Lori. This is history.” I did not understand what was happening but longed to be a part of the world that did. Although my memory of the event is as grainy as the black and white newscast, the sight of her flickering profile stays with me.
Perhaps this foreshadowed my future. I am forever outside a privileged circle of simpatico, the last one to get jokes, to fathom motivations, to follow instructions. At least though, I am in the room, wondering.