When I was little, I used to lay outside and reach my hands up to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds if I just extended my arms a little further.

When I was little, I used to reach down through the dirt, pushing just a little further to touch the earth’s pulsing core.

I was jealous of those who could stretch more — who were closer to feeling the wonder of the universe than I. It brought me a sense of satisfaction when they couldn’t feel it any more that I.

When I grew older, my teachers would tell me that I should work for it. Become an astronaut or a geologist. I replied: “The astronauts don’t touch the clouds, and the geologists don’t dig that far.” They would simply say that I could be the first.

The first? Me?

I wonder how the teachers felt when they saw my eyes shine. I think about how they felt tricking me.

I entered college double majoring. I studied day and night. Years past as I immersed myself in the words of past scientists and researchers.

Until, at last, I finished college. I stepped up to grab my third diploma and looked up at the sky. I stared at the masses of water droplets condensed in the atmosphere and then down at the concrete layered over the first layer of earth 1,800 miles above the earth’s core, knowing

I could never touch them no matter how hard I tried.