by Polly Foster
My mum’s an astronaut, studying solar flares. She’s somewhere so bright I can’t even look
without my eyes watering, but from down here I can blot her out with the tip of my thumb. That’s
called an eclipse.
People say I must be so proud of her. On Earth she glides through parties with her followers in
orbit, radiating a prickling heat that many mistake for warmth.
Personally I’ve always preferred the moon, although it can appear dusty and boring compared to the sun. Pockmarked with scars, but well practiced in redirecting the sun’s excess light to illuminate the darkness.
Author: Polly is a Content Strategist living in London with her partner and baby.
This story won 1st Prize in the October 2023 Monthly Micro Competition.