The Fermi Paradox
My dad took my nine-year-old hand
and led me outside to look at the night sky.
“I’d give you the stars,” and he meant it, but I didn’t want them,
because they aren’t ours. My new telescope showed me blurry planets,
far out of reach,
and I asked him about aliens.
My dad told me that they’re out there,
that somewhere out there, someone is wondering about me, but we
just haven’t met yet, and might never will, and I asked why.
Why haven’t we met?
And my dad told me about time, and chance, and space, and distance,
but I was nine, in fourth grade, and to me,
when I don’t see someone I’m looking for,
it’s because they’re avoiding me.
I wouldn’t want to be human either, if I had a choice;
we’ve been doing it all wrong.
Maybe, somewhere out there, someone is telling stories about us, calling us
a cautionary tale, for how we’re destroying ourselves.
I hope we’re a warning.
I don’t know what scares me more:
that hate is human, or that it isn’t.
To you, a million lightyears away, I hope we never meet.
I hope you visit my grave once when you arrive, you might even know what it means.
I hope you’re better than us.
I don’t know what scares me more:
that we’re alone, or that we aren’t.
Maybe, somewhere out there, someone is doing it right.
I hope someone is doing it right.
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