Sasha was not always going to be an astronaut
She much preferred
          floral arrangements (natives, not gardenias)
                   and coffee (robusta, a dash of oat milk)
                             and cinnamon (a light dusting, ochre snow)
in the café at the end of her street.

But the government decree passed into law
and the testing (aptitude and genetic both) sniffed her out like a
bureaucratic bloodhound
“This is someone with a keen eye for beauty
and for habitable worlds that won’t make us all suicidal,”
the psychologist’s report said, condemning her to a new life
as a lonely astronaut on a one-way voyage.
Sasha did not have a choice but to say goodbye to
          the flowers
                   and the coffee
                             and the smell of cinnamon
because her nation needed her to learn about
          fusion drives
                   and ion engines
                             and wormhole dynamics.

“You can only go forwards,”
they said.
“Your needleship cannot return
or it will collapse the vortices
and doom us all.”
And Sasha thought about all the things she left behind
and she decided she must do what was asked of her.

Sasha flies through the dark of night and catalogues the stars;
She visits worlds no human has tread on
          and she perches on a dry caldera
          and she wades through a sweat-soaked swamp
          and she glides over plains of glass and rock
all the while she yearns
for the café at the end of her street.

She tells the directors after her thirtieth jump
“In my quarters, I want
          beautiful flowers,
                   and good strong coffee,
                             and real cinnamon sticks.
Send them through with the next courier
And I’ll be satisfied.”

Sasha waits

and waits
and waits some more
the weeks turn
to months
until at last a
stout buzzing bumblebee drone
delivers her package.

With joy she has not felt in
days weeks months years
Sasha tears open the package and finds
          flowers (gardenias, wilted)
                   and coffee (arabica, decaf)
                             and cinnamon (nutmeg substitution)

So Sasha takes her needleship
and points it skywards,
ascending like a silver arrow,
streaking pale white
until she arrives at
the wormhole.

She had not thought this far,
beyond the yearning for
          what she could never have again
but what is life if not the yearning for
          what once was and can never be again?
and she plugs in the coordinates for
          the scent of flowers
                   and coffee
                             and warm cinnamon

© 2026 Arden Baker