Songs To My Beloved [FICTOID]

He stood on the seashore, looking between the two pink moons in the direction he was traveling.

She promised to come back and he knew she would, but she would be only two years older when she did and he would be sixty.

Though painful, the separation proved necessary,  There wasn’t enough space on the ship for all to return safely, so those infected, those who posed the greatest risk, they would sacrifice themselves and stay, awaiting relief.

Those who lived, of course.

He felt confident he would.  He had music; music gave him something to live for besides the hope she would return.

There remained supplies and energy enough to keep the remnant alive, and to be brutally pragmatic about it, as they died off one by one, their reserve supply would extend accordingly.

So he’d have time to write, to compose, to master a variety of instruments and techniques and styles.

They’re reaching the edge of the heliosphere about now, he thought.  In a few days, maybe a few hours they’ll be in interstellar space, then after that a straight shot home.

One year for them, thirty for us.

He tried to envision their reunion but couldn’t, too much time lay between now and then.

A fairy tale for our future, he thought, smiling in irony at the flexibility of relative “time”.

He stood in silent solitude, but not in sadness.  He felt a certain satisfaction in doing the right thing,

Besides, he would send her the songs he’d write for her, so he’d feel no real sense of loss.

She is.  I am.

© Buzz Dixon