When I came back from Saturn, a piece of me remained behind on the planet. Perhaps, in this very moment, it is floating, orbiting; itself morphed into an insignificant part of the ring. I cannot tell you which part of me decided to stay on Saturn, for I have shed so many parts of my old self and conjured so many new parts there. I am a completely different entity now than I was when I first ventured to Saturn, keeping only my given name.

It upset me most not the fact I had to leave—for my stay was absolutely enjoyable without wrinkles to iron, for I had made the absolute most out of my vacation—but the fact that I would no longer be bestowed a second opportunity to return, had I suddenly bear the urge to.

I suppose most things are like my trip to Saturn—you only get one chance; thereafter, there will be no seconds, no redos, no makeovers.

As I stared out into the expanding abyss of black and homeless debris, I see the planet, looking carved of wood, the birthchild of a cosmic woodworker stowed away from prying eyes, for his works have to be done in silence and blindness to achieve the utmost greatness.

I think Saturn was our creator’s favorite, its rings a testament to it all, for our uncontainable impulses to adorn things we adore with gold and silver. Saturn pales in comparison to its colorful and lively neighbors but does not lose its elegance and sophistication.

It is the simple things, after all, that stand out the most in a line of extravagance and bewilderment. It is, also, the simple things that we carelessly take for granted before looking to gods above, eyes wide shut, praying for seconds.