Author's Note: I write in metaphor. The following story is the result of a determining conversation I had with my life-partner about the nature of our relationship. This conversation took place on, coincidentally, the eighth anniversary of a Space Shuttle disaster. The story is not about a Space Shuttle.

Living In Columbia
(The First of February)

After a successful mission
a craft began to descend from its lofty position,
finally ready to get its feet back on the ground.

It had been sailing through a sea of dreams
with a hole in its heart its only vulnerability.
The damage, and what caused it, were ignored.
Everything seemed fine.

A tiny spark of hope
began to fill the hole in its heart.
Becoming a challenge, and flaring bright
the flame would be the thing that destroyed it.

Telltale indicators showed warnings
just before the end,
but the choices made in the past
couldn't be changed.

The atmosphere of the earth that it loved,
the forces for which it was built
tore apart the hole in its heart
and in a cruel heartbeat,
one violent moment shrouded in silence,
the cold unfeeling air
shredded the ship to pieces.

Nobody knew what happened.

Few friends noticed
as the streak in the sky burned out,
scattering scorched pieces of itself,
useless and unrecognized fragments,
across four states.

Any soul that had been inside was dead.