My little sister used to put pictures of rocket ships all over her bedroom walls. Instead of princess tiaras, astronaut helmets always lined Layla’s shelves. Glow in the dark stars speckled her ceiling and at night they cast out an eerie green glow. Whenever teachers or other adults inquired what her favorite holiday was, she’d tell them bluntly “The anniversary of the moon landing.” It was no use arguing with her, she was too odd. I’m positive that everyone in the world knew Layla wanted to be an astronaut.

“Nellie,” she’d say, “come watch the stars with me.”

“I have homework,” was my reply. In secret I just never found laying on the slightly damp nighttime grass enjoyable. I was paranoid that the neighbors would whisper to each other about how weird we were.

If there was an admirable quality about Layla though, it was her determination. She’d sit outside and point out constellations to herself. She was too young to know any actual ones, but that never stopped her from making up her own. She often told me of Sylas the Lion who always chased the moon around the sky. Maggie The Girl Who Couldn’t Sing was always her favorite though and soon became a part of almost every tale she spun. I believe that somewhere in the back of Layla’s head an entire world existed and whenever she glanced up to the night sky she only saw what she imagined.

When my teenage years rolled around I thought her even weirder than I had before and made sure to complain to my parents about how annoying my little sister was. In retrospect I was just worried that Layla would become completely delusional.

“It’s just a phase,” Mama would always reassure me. “Pretty soon she’ll forget all about space, once she starts first grade. You’ll see.”

Layla never did forget about space. During recess she’d read about astronauts and instead of swimming in cool, crystal ponds in the summer, my little sister would make bottle rockets that would soar into the sky. As her dream grew, the value she had to her classmates shrank. 

“You’re weird!” little girls would exclaim and promptly go back to playing house.

 “Girls can’t go to space!” boys would tell her while laughing.

Sometimes I thought Layla was deaf, because she never once heard them. Instead of defending herself, she simply spent her energy pursuing her dreams. I never had the courage to tell Layla that I believed what the kids said. Even though I would go as far as to call her insane, she was still my sister and I felt the need to protect her.

My turning point came one day while Layla lay coloring on the floor, marker in hand and legs kicking back and forth, she turned to me and asked, “Will you wave to me when I’m in space?” Without a moment of hesitation I nodded and told her that I would wave to her every night before I went to bed. Seemingly satisfied with my answer she went back to drawing. After finishing, she gave her drawing to me, the highest compliment one could get from a child. Before skipping out of the room she turned to me with those star-struck eyes of hers that sparkled when she was excited and simply smiled at me. I promised myself right then and there that I was going to support Layla as long as I lived.

I made her study hard and would scold her when her grades slipped, even though I wasn’t our Mama. I was her big sister though, so she looked up to me and she listened. I told her that she was going to go to a good college and do well. I bought her books on space and posters of planets for her birthdays and was rather pleased with myself to see that the spark in her lively blue eyes never faltered.

Years passed by quickly and pretty soon Layla was whisked away from Earth. Not a day passes that I don’t think about her. When my eyes hang heavy and my children are tucked tightly into their beds I’ll wave out the window to Layla. I know she’s happy floating around in the International Space Station. “I’m waving to you,” I think. “Can you see me?” I know that miles away a slightly smaller hand waves back.