Dear Meredith

A Love Letter from Space

My Dearest Meredith,

Yes, you are reading an actual letter. You may want to stop now, print it out, and read it on real paper. Perhaps you can find some old parchment to print it on? That will help you to achieve the full experience. I assumed (hoped) that the Anthropologist in you would appreciate a letter. You do so love digging around in libraries.

It may seem odd, but this seems more intimate to me than the recorded messages we’ve exchanged this past year. Don’t get me wrong, seeing your beautiful face, even if via a video feed, is a joy. Truly, it’s a joy to behold you. But, sometimes, it feels like we’re just going through the motions. Sharing the details of our lives and catching up on the latest news from home. Trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as they used to say. Smile, wish one another well, and sign off with an “I love you.” Then wait however many weeks or months for a reply.

I’m grateful for the way the Corporation has treated me, but their data restrictions can be frustrating. The time between our messages since I’ve arrived has left me missing you more than on the journey here. If that’s even possible.

Regardless, a new friend (more on him later) suggested that a written letter would take up less space, and I could correspond with you more often. Which, honestly, works out well for me. We both know I’ve always been better at painting or writing than speaking. And I’m happy for you to do my talking for me. So, it feels more natural for me to write a letter, as archaic as that may seem in this modern age.

And so, here we are. Me alone in my den, pen in hand, ready to pour myself out to you. Fully embracing my role as a pioneer. I hope you’re ready for it.

The truth is, my heart is breaking. And it has been since before I left. Is this the way all pioneers felt? Our forefathers who sailed across stormy seas to conquer a new land? Sea monsters be damned, and all.

I know I needed to make this journey. And I know the favors your father called in to get me passage. Getting them to accept a non-technical passenger on this trip, so early in the colonization efforts. A burden that I’m certain no one really wanted. Perhaps not even me? Was it hubris that brought me here? Something to prove to a world gone mad, a world drunk on technology?

Have I jeopardized the one thing that matters most to me in this world (that would be you, my love) to prove a point? I could have just immersed myself in a simulation to see Mars, instead of boarding a rocket to travel here myself. How would that have demonstrated anything, though? Doesn’t there need to be some sacrifice for art?

Ah, I am in a melancholy mood. Maybe that’s a consequence of six months in the blackness of space. It’s been hard to shake off, even after a few months. I could have slept my way here, but I chose to stay awake. After all, there were no intrepid sailors who slept their way from Europe to the New World. Drowsing under sails as others did the work. No, I needed to experience it all. Maybe I needed that time to miss you, to ponder the mysteries of the universe, and our place in it. I don’t know. But, I certainly had ample time to question my motives, second guess myself, and dream of our future together.

These long paragraphs are just me saying I never want to be away from your side again. I don’t know why it’s hard for me to say that while staring into a video screen, but there you have it. My heart on paper, bled in blue ink.

But, all that aside, I am here now, and I will accomplish what I’ve set out to do. Neither you nor your father will be disappointed in me, I can assure you. But when the time comes, I will gladly leave here, longing to return to your arms and vowing to never leave again.

You should know that I am aware that you are my greatest defender. My champion. I’ve said this to you before, but your belief in me is what keeps me going. That day before the Board, when you were advocating for my position on this journey, is on constant replay in my memory. Especially, your impassioned speech, with barely contained anger, against that Neanderthal Rupert.

One strand of your hair broke free from your clip (the vintage tortoiseshell one that I gave you Christmas last). You were so overcome with passion during your speech. That hair, slightly curled, dangled there, in front of your eye. I don’t know if you even noticed it. But I’ve sketched you in that moment, and I look at that sketch every night. I imagine reaching up and tenderly brushing that wayward lock back into place. Just so I can better see into those wondrous green eyes of yours. You, my love, are seared into my memory.

As for the art… the journey here was fruitful. Being one of only six humans on the ship, and the only non-technical person, meant I was the only one without a job to do. The others took turns in and out of stasis, so I was never alone. But alone enough to get plenty of work done.

The photos and images of earth, the moon, and Mars from space are all awe-inspiring, but seeing it firsthand is simply incredible. I can only imagine what those first brave astronauts thought those many years ago. Seeing the earth from space the first time, with no reference, no idea what to expect. The sight alone must have changed them forever. I remember hearing the recordings of them trying to describe it in words. It would have been a daunting task for the finest of poets.

The view was certainly inspiring. I have a whole bay of finished paintings I can’t wait for you to see. I’ve tried to show you some over video, but I know it’s difficult to get a good feel for the work that way. I want you to see them in person. Some of my best work, I think. Did the blackness of space change me the way it must have changed those early astronauts? I’ll leave that to you to assess, but I think the answer is yes. How could it not? The bleakness alongside the wonder of it all is hard to experience without it affecting you.

Mostly, it’s the aloneness. Not loneliness, which I think is something else altogether. It’s being confronted with the vastness of something that you can’t really comprehend. It leaves one with this feeling of aloneness. Smallness. As if anything you can accomplish is nothing that this vast universe will ever regard.

I wonder if those fearless sailors of long ago felt the same. At least they had sea creatures to observe. Whales and dolphins and mermaids. There’s nothing in the blackness of space but the blackness of space.

Yet, I still feel a kindred spirit with those early explorers. Did they stand on the prow of their ship, staring at a vast ocean, with nothing on the horizon, and feel this same aloneness? That their deeds in the service of exploration would amount to nothing?

Perhaps. But what I’ve discovered is that there’s a spark there, too. Amidst the bleakness there’s this tiny blue orb, which you know is teeming with life. Wonderful exotic animals and plants. Untold numbers of people, living and loving and dying and grieving and hoping and doing it all day, day after day. We create and we live because we have to. Because it matters.

Alas, I’m no poet, as you know, so the words escape me. Suffice it to say that I believe I’ve been changed and inspired in the best possible ways. I do believe I’ve captured this spirit on canvas.

We’ve been here on Mars for several months now, and the work continues. The surface here is desolate. There is no other word for it. But beautiful in its desolation. The horizons are endless, unbroken by anything that man has made. At least not yet.

We live underground, a giant network of tubes bored into the rock. A futuristic rabbit warren, if you like. No foxes here, though, so we’re quite safe. The point being that there’s no habitat above ground. All that’s visible of our presence here is life support – solar farms, water reclamation, oxygen generators – and, of course, garages for the vehicles.

The Corporation is expanding from this location, and they’ve started laying the infrastructure for future habitats. The robots are doing daily excursions, laying cable for communication, power, and such. Everything must be underground here due to the violent storms.

The Director has been gracious enough to let me ride along with the bots while they do their work, provided I don’t interfere with them. Every time they stop, I get out of the vehicle, setup my easel and sketch the landscape – as best I can in gloves. Even the special made ones your father had designed for me are a bit cumbersome.

Once the bots saw what I was doing they strapped a seat to the roof of the buggy for me! I know they feel no emotion, but I almost think they are amused by me. More likely they just determined it would increase efficiency to strap me to the roof and out of the way. But I like to think that, in some way, they appreciate art, and what I’m trying to accomplish.

I often wonder, if they could laugh, would they laugh at me? This ridiculous human, strapped to the roof, working on something they don’t understand. And it is clear they don’t understand. In fact, I think one of the bots might have been trying to pick a fight with me. Two days ago, we were on an excursion. A bot that had been recently brought online began to argue with me about the science behind the formation of the planet, what caused its red hue, and so on. ‘Argue’ may be overstating it a bit, but he seemed contrary to any of my notions about beauty, when simple science could explain everything quite clearly. For the record, I’ve decided to name him Rupert.

From my vantage point atop the buggy, I have clear views all around. As I said, it’s desolate, but, oh, so beautiful. The vastness is indescribable. Unsullied by man. The colors are muted, no vegetation obviously, but the rocks are nothing like on Earth.

It’s odd, we’ve only just arrived on this planet, but as we drive around the landscape, I feel a sense of history. As we rumble across the open spaces I expect to encounter a horde of green warriors, astride mighty thoats, with John Carter at their lead.

We climb into the mountains and I look about, trying to discern Fire Balloons. Each new valley brings hope of an ancient, ruined, Martian city.

All the stories we read as children have come alive in my imagination. There’s more than just rocks here. There’s memory. There’s adventure. There’s love, fear, and danger. I can’t help but incorporate this into my paintings.

I even did a landscape sketch yesterday and added in “Whatley’s Potato Emporium” at the intersection of two imaginary roads. I know your father will appreciate this.

I mentioned earlier that there are violent storms here. They are to be feared, but they are also majestic. The landscape is such that you can see them from miles away. Watch them form, and roll across the barren surface, swirling and growing in strength and ferocity. It reminds me of a summer vacation at my aunt’s in Oklahoma, watching from her front porch as a thunderstorm formed and marched across the green prairie.

I’ve attempted to capture the magnificence of these storms, perhaps at my own peril. Several days ago, a storm was rolling in as I worked outside, the bots scurrying around me, securing hardware, pulling anything unsecured under cover. They urged me to take shelter, but I was mesmerized, my hands moving as quickly as they could to capture the moment.

One bot in particular, I’ve named him Camille (the friend I mentioned earlier), waited nearby, patiently, for me to finish. If a bot can be patient. Everyone else went inside, leaving myself and Camille alone, bits of rock and debris clattering against my face shield. Finally, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was Camille. He said nothing, but I knew it was time to seek shelter before I regretted it.

The finished work, wrought in the moment, is some of my finest yet from the surface. The Director was angry that I’d put myself and Camille in danger. Truth be told, I feel he was angrier at the prospect of losing a valuable bot than a pesky artist. But even he grunted in approval at the finished painting.

The work continues apace, and Camille has become my de facto assistant. As long as he accomplishes his other tasks, no one seems to mind. There is much of the landscape here remaining to be captured, and I am grateful for his assistance.

And then, my love, and then… the one thing that is only surpassed in beauty by your own. The night sky. Words cannot describe it, and I fear my meager talents are unworthy of it. I spend my nights outside until they force me back into the warren for my own protection.

The fabled green sky of Mars is real! The aurora is breathtaking. Mesmerizing. I would say otherworldly, but that would be inane. I swear it lives. It moves, ripples in the nighttime sky. The bots explain to me that this is merely a natural phenomenon of solar winds, hydrogen, and particles in the atmosphere. I explain to them that it is the work of a great artist, a living stream of light meant to instill awe and wonder. Meant so that we understand beauty. To know that beauty is real. That it lives. It lives in our hearts and brings us unimaginable joy at its revelations.

On most nights, when the aurora is not active, there is merely the heavens. Merely. The heavens like you have never seen before. There is no light pollution here. No satellites. No aircraft. Just heaven. A million billion stars. The sky is thick with them. There is no ‘star light, star bright,’ a singular star here and there. There is an endless expanse of light. Neverending, unceasing. The Milky Way spreads across the sky like a river, light and dark, colors and hues, reality and imagination.

Mars’ two moons dart across the sky, not bright and demanding attention like our moon, but quick, like imps, mischievously running through your field of vision, teasing.

How do I capture the essence of this planet? It’s like trying to put creation into a bottle. But isn’t that the essence of art? Just a mere imitation, to the best of our capability, to project to each other what creation has spoken into our hearts? And here, it speaks volumes, as they say. Not loudly, but not a whisper either. More like an old friend that’s invited you in to sit and view a masterwork that they’ve just acquired.

At night, locked in my corner of the warren, I wonder if this trip was worth it. Much of me says no, I miss you too much. But when I sit underneath the stars, like our ancestors must have done so long ago, sails creaking under a nighttime sky, I think yes. Yes, this is worth it.

I set out to prove that there is still a place for art in this world. In any world, I guess, wherever it is that mankind travels. That in a world where technology has become some kind of god (with a small g), that can mimic man, and thereby mimic God, there was still a place for us. Us as humans. Us as creation (the pinnacle?). Us as creators. We created technology to replace us. Technology that can do anything we can do, and probably do it better. But it can’t feel. It can only imitate and record and regurgitate. That may be enough for some, but not for me.

I should end now, and get back to work. I’m certain you have things to do as well. I’ll need to scan this and get it inserted into the next data transmission before 1:00, then I’ll have the afternoon to paint. Tomorrow is another long excursion with the bots. I may even need to spend the night sleeping in one of the buggies, which would be a whole new adventure.

I have been awed by the beauty of creation here. And humbled. But, so grateful to be here to see and feel and comprehend and create beautiful things. I pray that I am up to the task of bringing some beauty home from the stars.

Know this, my love. This separation has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I miss you, I love you, I adore you. And when I say I will never leave your side again, I mean that more than you can possibly imagine.

Until we meet again, my love, I remain yours, now, always, and forever. – Michael

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Copyright 2026 Paul A. Tennant

I’ve been contemplating the question, “If AI can do everything for us, and probably do it better, what does that leave for us?” It’s disheartening to me to see stories of viral bands that don’t really exist. To hear music created not out of someone’s heart, but out of a digital aggregation of everything that’s gone before. To see books created out of an assessment of the next logical sequence of words rather than a storyteller’s imagination. This is our future, though. Pandora’s box is open and there’s no closing it. But we can plant a flag and say, “No. Art is ours.”

If you’ve gotten this far… thanks for reading. Please share your thoughts in the comments. I’m working on my craft and welcome your feedback, what did or didn’t work for you, what you liked or hated. Don’t worry, I can take it. If you did like it, please feel free to share with someone who enjoys a good story. And if you’re not already subscribed, please consider becoming a free subscriber and see what comes next. More stories are coming!