Hey, Lee, it’s me, your writer, your creator, your god, the person who imagines a life for you, then lives your life in proxy.
You are genderless, ageless, born of this planet but not bound to it forever.
Today, I sit in this hot house, in the hothouse of a sunroom, on a late July afternoon, pondering your future.
The trees outside are thirsty, their leaves turning brown.
Hummingbirds look for nourishment, tasting the sweating fig leaves.
I fight off the immediate urge to nap and think about what you’ll do next in the narrative of you and Guin as Martian Pioneers
There are decades of Earth-based living that you have to deal with until you leave this planet.
The years will pass by quickly enough.
But let’s think about them now.
Then I’ll nap.