I remember back when I was a kid, I don’t know how old. Not quite so old that I didn’t mind it when my father put his arm around my shoulder one warm summer night while looking up into the star-filled sky.

"You see that bright, reddish star just below the Moon," he’d said. He held out his arm straight, pointing. "That’s not a star at all. That’s Mars. The closest to the Earth it’s been for as long as I can remember."

I’d looked up into the night sky countless times before, awed at the pinpricks of light scattered in that featureless field of black velvet. I remember being pissed-off that they were so far away, that what was known about them was pretty much theory. I could hold a seashell in my hand and wonder what forces of nature impelled whatever creature to form that near-perfect spiral of rock-hard material that was its home. The Stars? You could look, but you couldn’t touch; like Mom’s Blue Willow collection and Dad’s tools.

"Some day, we’ll go to Mars," Dad said, attempting to instill wonder in my young mind. "Man will live there."

I’d thought to myself at the time, I ain’t gonna hold my fuckin’ breath, Dad.

My son kicked at the dusty, red soil, sending up small clouds of dust that drifted a few meters and settled back down on the rock-strewn surface. A band of indigo hovered just above the jagged, black horizon, the light of the retreating day fading into the equally inky blackness of the star-littered sky above.

What has always struck me was the silence of the place: No crickets chirping, no birds singing, no dogs barking. Just the hiss of dust storms and the whistle overhead of passing shuttles.

Phobos began to peek out from behind a mountain, an orange waxing orb that paled in comparison, size-wise, to Earth’s own Moon. My son was standing with his head tilted back, straining to take it all in. He’d catch himself from falling backwards, stumbling on the small rocks. He’d reorient himself and tip his head back again.

"What’s that bright star up there?" He thrust his finger in the air.

"That?" I answered. "That’s not a star at all. That’s a planet. Planet Earth."

"Earth? Isn’t that where we came from?"

"Yes, that’s where we all came from. Except you kids. You were born here."

Earth. Now uninhabited; a hothouse breeding plague and pestilence. Quarantined.

"Some day we’ll go back to Earth, huh, Dad?"

"Yeah, sure." I ain’t gonna hold my fuckin’ breath. For sure, this time.