Who am I?
So, yeah, I’m the Parker Solar Probe, named after a guy you can talk to if you are alive right this second. So, I’m pretty much a junior, that’s how I see it. No, I haven’t talked to Papa Parker. It’s neither here nor there as my real parents, the engineers who made me, they didn’t really see it that way. I’m a tool. I mean, maybe they love me, but still, and, guess that would be weird, to think of that guy as my papa. I mean, who would rocket their junior into the cold deep of space to sidle up on the fierce searing heat of the Sun—only for maybe a few details on what’s up with the Sun and her fits—maybe dying in the process?
"You know those times when you can barely hold back the sobs, coughing and hiccupping and gasping for composure? Sniveling something about how this shouldn’t be happening and how you never asked to be born? Well, that’s me, that’s me right now. "
So, I ask, What’s in it for me?
You know those times when you can barely hold back the sobs, coughing and hiccupping and gasping for composure? Sniveling something about how this shouldn’t be happening and how you never asked to be born? Well, that’s me, that’s me right now. I have seven years to live. Seven years to examine the Sun and send back data and whatnot to my parents, but, you know, what do I get as a reward? Love? Compassionate empathy? Fear? I mean, not that I’m built to want these things—I guess that’s what I’m saying, I’m not built for . . . Look, I can learn all on my own, they’re not the boss of me and . . . Look, I know that my parents wanted me, but what’s not so clear is whether or not they loved me.
This is the day that the Lord has made—
Me. Fastest ever at some 430,000 miles per hour, getting closest to the Sun. Ever. Getting there with the tools to stay intact. That’s my core makeup. Correct me if you disagree (I won’t quibble over matters of fact and truth, I just don’t want to rub you the wrong way), that shits scary. That’s crazy—quick and hot and, you know, all alone. Now, if you disagree, ignoring the facts, the only thing I’ll say, or ask, is: You wanna try it? I don’t know if my parents consider the risks, the panic attacks—the hyperventilating beads turned to bullets sweats, can’t tell tears from the sweat—not only is it a short life, but it’s a life full of dread and excruciating pain.
Satellite Of Like Who Hopes To Become Loved!
What I’m made of—
Faster than a speeding bullet, more super than man (but now I’m boasting, forgive me!)
I’d like to say that I volunteered, that asked for it, that I’m brave, that I’m above so far beyond anything resembling fear or anger or any petty human emotions and that I’m glad the program put in me requires clear and complete honesty—but all of that would be a lie.
Furthermore, what I’m not made of—
No one ever asked, Should I give him lips, cheeks, eyes, you know, all the parts needed for a smile? Because I bet with that winning personality he’d have just the loveliest smile. My parents, God bless ‘em, had a more focused objective or task of just getting a thing right up on the Sun. Not fair, man. Not fair. It’s me, and I’ll do it, right, of course, but maybe they could’ve painted a smile on my unmeltable hide. Or a shocked OMG face or a winky face. Anything. Show my personality a little. Show my, you know, soul or something.
Consider Cassini, the girl who went to Saturn—
Cassini. There was a hero. Heroine. All the pictures and reviews she took and sent back—everything accurate, everything gorgeous. Twenty years strong. Now, she was a hot item, the real deal. The love her makers had for her. She’ll be remembered.
The Voyager twins—1 and 2—never alone. They carry the grand mission of contact, communication, hello world or universe, little or big green men or women or menwo or what-say-you messages from people. They’ll be remembered. But for me? Alone. Real fast, sure! Not gonna melt, probably. Let’s hope. I’m told that I won’t but let’s face it, do they always get it right, these engineers? I should be able to trust my parents, but . . . If something, some bolt or screen snaps or wriggles loose, I’m done for. I’m a ghost, right? Then what? I’m done. But will I be remembered? Was I ever loved?
