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November Sky
We stood at the edge
of the back yard,
next to the garage—
where I’d pretended to be
an astronaut in a
cardboard spaceship—
on a chill November night,
watching Sputnik II
arc across the sky.
I didn’t know why
he was rarely home—
or why it wasn’t always
like this when he was:
quiet,
steady,
present.
All I knew was the stars were out,
and he was beside me—
and Laika was aboard.
I didn’t know then
she had no way back—
no reentry plan,
no soft descent.
I pictured her peering
through a tiny window,
tongue lolling,
stars reflected in her eyes.
I thought
someone would bring her home.
Now I know
she died within hours—
heat and panic rising
in that cramped metal cradle
while I, warm in my pajamas,
believed in science,
believed in rescue,
believed in my father’s voice
saying, Look, there she goes.
At least they finally gave
her a monument
in Moscow.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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