Ringed planet and rocket on fingers

The tug Halewood docked at Ring Station Four this morning, and I have spent the afternoon at the observation glass watching the rings turn slowly against the black, like someone sweeping crumbs off a table. Saturn fills the whole window. You would hate how quiet it is out here, though Ottie the cook says the ice particles sing when the magnetic field catches them. The sensors only show numbers, but I told her I would listen for you.

The pilot on the return run says the rocket ships will be retired within a decade, replaced by slow, patient haulers that never need a name. I don't believe him. Somebody will always want to go faster than the last person. Besides, the crew painted a little ringed planet beside the airlock door the week I arrived, and nobody has had the heart to scrub it off.

Your rocket is still stencilled on the tug's hull, the one you sketched on the back of a ration chit the night before I left. The paint has faded to grey at the nose cone, and the first time I saw it I stood in the cold corridor for a full minute like a fool. Whatever survives out here, we can read by touch and by memory, which is more than most people get.

Write back soon, even if it is only a line. The relay takes eleven days each way, so tell me something small from the ground, like whether the kettle on the hill still rattles, or whether Dad finally fixed the gate.

Love, Mae