Thanksgiving in the space shuttle is not so special. The dried turkey flakes off in even sheets. The mashed potatoes are so mashed that the starch molecules combust into fine particles in the cabin. Ken wants yams but there are none. Bridget says not to worry; she’s got marshmellows. She rips the bag open and out they spiral, tiny congealed globs of sugar that spin like stars. Ken turns off the light and the astronauts bob in the dark. Planets might shift and stars might form. Asteroids might collide and satellites might pass. Regardless, all that matters today is sugar.
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