Rudder and I have been together now for just about 12 years. We met on March 23,
1990, incidentally just across Clear Lake from the Johnson Space Center. In all
that time I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've cried on
his shoulder. About him a few times, maybe, but if I'm crying on his shoulder it's
about somethng outside us. Today was another one.
And it's odd, because it is far away and maybe because it is the second time. I
was a sophomore in college when Challenger blew up, and yes, I do remember exactly
where I was when I heard. Somehow it feels less like a new grief, more like a
closer grief would feel after a couple of weeks. I've forgotten about Columbia a
few times today, once while out at the lake touching up scratches on my boat and
hanging out with people there and again when we went to see the movie Chicago,
only to have to emerge, blinking, back to reality. For people now in the space
program, I know, and for those who knew those seven (seven again!) astronauts
personally, there is no escape from grief yet. There will be none for weeks at
least, and then after that every time they're happy they'll emerge back into grief
when they remember.