At six o’clock this morning I awoke to someone pounding on the front door of my home. I knew who it was – Homer. My husband and I stumbled out of bed. Me, flipping on all the lights along the way, toward the relentless energy of a 16 year old extraterrestrial.
“Hi, Mrs. McIlvain,” Homer said, waving his hand back and forth in front of his signature goofy half smile.
“Huh, come in Sweetie,” I grunted.
His eyes darted to my office. “Um, did you turn on your computer yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said yawning. “I just got up.”
Upstairs two doors slammed. Two showers simultaneously sang. The house was starting its day with my son and husband caught up in the rhythm.
“Times a wastin’, Mrs. M.” he said, zipping into my computer/office room. “I really wanted to watch this with you. Explosions like this happen all the time, but ya got to be lolling around space to catch one – I mean, this one’s a scheduled event. Wait until you see the cool plumes!”
Homer pushed the requisite buttons and the computer whirled to life with a flash of blue “Welcome!” I noticed again how rough the back of his hands were. They had the look of a weathered old man – the man in the moon. My heart went out to him.
Like most people and the media, the importance of NASA’s mission of finding water beneath the surface of the moon was secondary. Like Homer and me, they rose at this ungodly hour to witness a huge explosion. It never came. But the mission was a success.
While my coffee brewed, Homer sat with my son in the family room, downing vast amounts of cereal and laughing at the jokes of some sitcom. He is so human-like, except for those ears, deformed and too big for his sweet face. Then I heard the strange bark of his laugh again. I turned the computer off wondering why he seemed so attached to us. I'll be hunting for that answer during the course of this blog.
What do you think?