When my body was four years old — I could focus on a buzzy feeling on my way to sleep, willing myself to fly. As I fell into sleep, I lifted off. Those dream flights carried me over our house. I enjoyed a bird’s eye view of pecan trees, then soared over the rooftop, flying a little way down the street, the limit of my known world.
By the time I was seven, I wanted to go into space. I knew about astronauts, the manned moon landing and Cape Canaveral, especially from my favorite uncle. I daydreamed of spacewalking: Floating with the Earth in view – a view thanks to satellites.
But I never suspected that, one night when I was ten, I would put on a special suit, be lifted into a real launch vehicle, and rocketed into low gravity orbit.
From a quick drawing myself in space [see Lynda Barry’s Making Comics] Phoebe showed up.