And Moving On
* * *
How long?
A day? Two days? A week?
How long do you wait? How long must pass before you accept it, before you agree that it is not a dream, that it is real and terrible and true?
How long before you honor them?
How long?
She didn't know.
But as the days passed, as the fog of shock, of pain, of realization passed, the question came. It was a hard question, hard to ask and harder still to answer, for she had no experience in these sorts of things. Back home there were always others, other people, who were trained to deal with them, to provide you with guidance if something like this happened. Back home you weren't required to go it alone.
This brought tears to her.
Alone.
For John had turned away. There was no comfort in his arms even now, when he held her. He had turned away and she knew it was because he blamed himself, because he had failed to do what he felt a father must do.
Protect your child.
How long? How long do you wait before you do those things you must, before you close this chapter, before you honor your child who has ....
She couldn't say it.
But Maureen Robinson was a strong woman. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this truth, knew now that it would have to be her who brought them together, knew it would have to be her who did what must be done.
We have to go on.
We have to let go.
#
They came out to the spot in the Chariot, riding silently. They had dressed in their finest clothes, the six of them, and when they arrived they stopped and filed out and stood for a moment by the giant, fallen slab. Then the Robot came out of the rear of the Chariot and rolled to a spot before them. It carried a large stone, which it set into place beside the fallen slab.
They stood silently before it for a time. Then one spoke a few words, then another. These words were difficult for them, because they were remembering, because each of them was trying to tell the others something good that they remembered about her. They had agreed that this should be so, that she deserved to have good memories told at this time, at this last honor.
But it was hard.
At last they turned, one by one, and stepped back to the Chariot, climbing aboard and strapping into their seats. They were silent again as they drove back to the Jupiter II, as behind them the newly erected stone slowly threw a lengthening shadow across the ground as morning turned into afternoon. And as it grew later the inscription carved there became dim in the fading light.
#
Penny Roberta Robinson
September 9, 1985 to April 23, 2004
Beloved Daughter, Beloved Sister, Beloved Friend
* * *
How long?
A day? Two days? A week?
How long do you wait? How long must pass before you accept it, before you agree that it is not a dream, that it is real and terrible and true?
How long before you honor them?
How long?
She didn't know.
But as the days passed, as the fog of shock, of pain, of realization passed, the question came. It was a hard question, hard to ask and harder still to answer, for she had no experience in these sorts of things. Back home there were always others, other people, who were trained to deal with them, to provide you with guidance if something like this happened. Back home you weren't required to go it alone.
This brought tears to her.
Alone.
For John had turned away. There was no comfort in his arms even now, when he held her. He had turned away and she knew it was because he blamed himself, because he had failed to do what he felt a father must do.
Protect your child.
How long? How long do you wait before you do those things you must, before you close this chapter, before you honor your child who has ....
She couldn't say it.
But Maureen Robinson was a strong woman. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this truth, knew now that it would have to be her who brought them together, knew it would have to be her who did what must be done.
We have to go on.
We have to let go.
#
They came out to the spot in the Chariot, riding silently. They had dressed in their finest clothes, the six of them, and when they arrived they stopped and filed out and stood for a moment by the giant, fallen slab. Then the Robot came out of the rear of the Chariot and rolled to a spot before them. It carried a large stone, which it set into place beside the fallen slab.
They stood silently before it for a time. Then one spoke a few words, then another. These words were difficult for them, because they were remembering, because each of them was trying to tell the others something good that they remembered about her. They had agreed that this should be so, that she deserved to have good memories told at this time, at this last honor.
But it was hard.
At last they turned, one by one, and stepped back to the Chariot, climbing aboard and strapping into their seats. They were silent again as they drove back to the Jupiter II, as behind them the newly erected stone slowly threw a lengthening shadow across the ground as morning turned into afternoon. And as it grew later the inscription carved there became dim in the fading light.
#
Penny Roberta Robinson
September 9, 1985 to April 23, 2004
Beloved Daughter, Beloved Sister, Beloved Friend