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# Splashdown
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/splashdown/
- Published: 2026-04-10T23:10:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:09:45.000Z
- Description: "Splashdown," a poem in Six parts (one for each minute of silence). Written April 10, poem 100 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "The Ring: Orion capsule returning to Earth," image of NASA live-stream as captured in a still by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Homage, Long form musings, Poems, 1990s, April, Artemis II, Burbs, Canada, Canadian Space Agency, Capsule, Child, Core Memory, Daughter, Faith, Flashbacks, Heck Yeah, Hope, Horror, Humanity, Integrity, MagicEye TM, Memories, NASA, Oh my Gosh, Orion, Patience, Recovery, Splashdown, STS Columbia, STS-107, Textbook, Time Travel, Tragedies, TV, Universe, Unknowning, USA, Victories, Waiting, YouTube, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

*Experiencing the universe, as recounted in six parts,* 
*one for each of the "Six Minutes of Silence.*"  
  
**I. Blackout**  
  
Friday evening in Maryland  
twenty-four minutes away   
from Orion's Splashdown   
in the Pacific, bringing with it,   
the Artemis II crew home.  
  
But first:  
We (the sentient universe)  
must endure six excruciating   
minutes of unknowing  
as We experience a full  
communications blackout   
with Artemis II's quartet.  
  
The NASA commentator  
on live-stream reminds   
Us, the global viewer,  
that:  
  
A plasma screen will acrete   
around the hull   
of the ship,   
per careful calculations.  
  
Calculations based on the same   
equations that Katherine Johnson,   
Mary Jackson, and Dorothy Vaughan  
first computed and documented in the '60s.  
  
That this accumulated plasma  
causes a temporary   
— *it's only temporary!* —  
disconnect.  
  
That it is calculated to be   
exactly  
precisely  
six minutes of darkness.  
  
And that:  
This is Expected.   
This is Normal.  
This is Necessary.  
This is Science.  
  
Earlier in the day,   
print media had implored Us:  
Take note: the commentators   
will remind you tonight.  
But we will now   
remind you   
*in advance*:  
This.   
Is.   
Normal.   
Do. Not. Fret.  
Believe in Science.  
Trust the Process.  
And also,   
Pray for their safe return.  
  
There it is.  
Science and Faith are one.  
They were never separate.  
We are reminded, again, today.  
  
And so,   
here in my living room.  
I am fully, iteratively  
logically prepared for   
the phenomenon of reentry.  
  
And I have also sent my prayers   
like unmanned beacons  
up through the heavens all day.  
  
The Splashdown clock appears   
on the upper corner   
of my viewing screen,   
a NASA YouTube live-stream.  
  
The Earth as one draws breath a last time:  
*Six Minutes of Silence*  
begins for Orion   
and its Artemis II crew inside.  
Now We Wait.  
  
And my heart clenches.  
  
\= = = =  
  
**II. Core Memory 1.0**  
  
As the clock ticks,  
I am transported backward  
via unconsenting time travel.  
Whisked at thirty-five times   
the speed of sound, I reenter  
my sophomore year dorm room.  
  
I am now nineteen, and I'd been,   
on that Saturday morning,   
preparing to celebrate the   
arrival of Lunar New Year   
— The Year of the Goat —  
with my friends on campus.  
  
But first, I was watching, alone,  
the NASA Columbia shuttle's   
Splashdown countdown on NBC,  
with my wonky rabbit ear antenna  
on my grainy 13" TV/VCR   
set atop my noisy mini-fridge.  
  
I bore witness,  
in real-time as   
We, Humanity, viewed  
a comet-like light show.  
  
The announcer said:  
We are waiting on comms.  
This is Normal.  
We should hear from them again  
in about six minutes.   
  
Meanwhile, bright silvery light,   
*beautiful! luminous!* trails   
expanded in the sky,  
a Fourth of July fireworks finale.  
  
*Oh wow!*   
I had held my breath in awe.  
Humans are amazing.  
  
All the while,   
We waited.  
We waited patiently,   
confidently, for the astronauts   
to share their first thoughts   
upon regaining Air-to-Ground comms.  
  
My mind recited, unprompted:  
*"And the rockets' red glare* 
*The bombs bursting in air* 
*gave proof through the night* 
*that our flag was still there."*  
  
But it was not to be.  
We learned that those  
gorgeous sights,   
those manmade shooting stars  
were not planned.   
  
That Columbia STS-107   
had lost total  
contact with us,   
and us them,  
permanently.  
  
In the coming minutes  
we heard with disbelief  
from stunned TV anchors.  
These voices now knew,  
more than and before  
NASA's own Mission Control,  
that this was:  
Not. Normal.  
It was the shuttle Columbia,   
broken into pieces.   
  
Foam insulation tiles,   
damaged upon launch,   
had doomed the crew   
from nine seconds into   
their mission on Day 1.  
  
Columbia's fragments   
soared through the sky   
as those fireballs   
incinerate everything   
and everyone aboard.  
  
Wreckage scattered across   
multiple states.  
The forensic scene was perhaps   
the biggest investigation radius  
for a single non-war-related event  
in the course of human history.  
  
Our then President, 43 or W.,  
confirmed the loss that day.  
It took three days to find DNA   
among the debris fields in Texas.  
  
Eleven days post-explosion,  
some remains of each explorer  
had been recovered  
with urgency, care and dignity.  
  
These remnants of brave humans  
were somberly transported  
to Walter Reed Army Medical Center  
in Washington, DC for analysis.  
  
Returning these explorers' body parts  
brought but a most shallow closure  
to each of seven astronauts' families,   
and to Us.  
  
Those images,   
and those voices   
explaining the tragedy,  
are etched, engrained in my soul.  
  
I still hold the grief of this  
universal loss, which befell Us  
less than two years post-9/11.  
  
Those of the generations   
old enough to remember:  
We all hold this weight.  
  
And we have all inhaled,   
embodied, become as one,   
with the infinitesimally small,  
nano fragments of those brave seven.  
  
Genetics tells us:  
*We are 99.9% the same.*  
Religion tells us:   
*Dust to Dust.*  
Physics dictates:  
*Energy is never created nor destroyed.*  
Astronomers, and Poets, tell us:  
*We are all made of stars.*  
  
\= = = =   
  
**III. Faith-and-Wait**  
  
I flash forward to today.  
Now, here in my forties,   
I am on my couch in the 'burbs.  
I watch with hope, and fear.  
  
I read those articles today,   
the ones that revealed Orion,  
named Integrity by its crew,  
also has faulty insulation.   
They face a one-in-twenty-odds   
of devastation upon descent.  
  
I'm not sure my psyche   
nor soul could sustain  
another Space Loss.  
  
This time, though, I am not alone.  
I hold my daughter's hand.  
She holds mine back,   
a rare instance of touch, of bonding.  
  
She had homework to do,   
as always, but I had told her:  
Come.   
Sit.   
  
While she rolled her eyes  
I went on: There is *nothing*   
more important   
than this moment.  
  
So now, her head presses   
against my side,   
her body heavy on me.  
She never does this anymore;  
her closeness to me   
is a distant memory.  
  
We witness both the capsule's   
black-out and the commentator's   
intermittent quietude.  
  
My voice frets back and forth,   
part incantation,   
part verbal worry stone:  
"*StaySafeStaySafeStaySafeStaySafe*..."  
  
I watch my heart rate   
rise exponentially  
from 66 to 112 BPM  
on my Apple Watch.   
(Biofeedback is a marvel.)  
  
I hold her tight against me  
as we watch, hushed.  
I realize I'm squeezing her too hard  
when she squeals, "Mom, *Oww*!!"  
  
I stop referring to my watch.  
I no longer need to see that  
my heart is pounding at 200 BPM  
to know it is.  
  
It passes six minutes  
and I do not see visuals return  
on the screen within a screen  
on Mission Control's large display.  
  
OhNoOhNoOhNo   
I chant.  
  
ComeMonComeMonComeMon.  
I sound like an auctioneer.  
  
WE NEED COMMENTARY!   
I yell.  
  
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE  
I beg.  
  
\= = = =   
  
**IV. The Ring**  
  
Unlike in 2003, we have   
the good fortune of many POVs.  
We get more visual intel, and sooner.  
Infrared, airborne, ground-based.  
  
The first visual comes to Us  
in shades of grey.  
The capsule looks like   
a pulsating spinning circle   
surrounded by concentric rings   
of visible energy.  
  
Our fuzzy, trippy view now is  
half *Magic Eye* book, half  
hypnotizing movie-within-a-movie,   
like in *The Ring*.  
In other words, the 1990s   
foretold this moment.  
  
And like the horror film,   
I can't stop staring.  
And my life will never be  
the same after watching it.  
  
We see the Orion capsule  
from a new angle, now strikingly  
against blue, hurtling at speeds   
close to or breaking 25,000 MPH.  
  
After too long a pregnant pause  
We finally hear auditory evidence  
that Our Crew, our Kindness Heroes,  
had made it through.  
  
From Commander Reid Wiseman:  
"What a journey! We are stable.  
We have four green crew members."  
Green. As in, good, safe, healthy.  
  
*PHEW!*  
  
\= = = =  
  
**V. Jump Scare**  
  
What the commentators   
and news articles failed to mention  
while repeatedly talking about the   
*Six Minutes of Silence*   
is how the parachute system  
or systems, plural, work.   
  
I eject from the couch  
I am standing in front of the TV  
as if my proximity is remedy.  
  
I am oddly quiet,   
watching the stubby Hershey Kiss   
without a paper tag   
fall through whispy blue sky.  
  
I manage: "Oh my *gossssssh*,"  
a way to fill the dead air space.  
My mind is running through   
a million negative thoughts  
while my heart reaches for hope.  
  
I am blocking   
my daughter's view:  
"Mom, *Move*!"  
  
The white parachutes deploy  
looking like alien jellyfish  
And they fill with air, phew!   
And they seem operational.  
  
I know my fear has won  
when my shock at a positive sign   
has me bursting into unvarnished joy:  
"Hhhhh!" My voice breaks   
as breath shoots out.  
  
**"Y A A A A A A A A A A Y!**"  
  
\[I scream over an announcer   
who helpfully, if unheard, says:  
"They are going through   
a series of parachutes...\]  
  
I continue hollering, like  
the over-invested parent   
on the gym bleachers that I am:  
"That's *HUGE*! Good job! Good Job!"  
  
I hear a male voice:   
"And Houston, we're visual;   
two chutes out the window."  
  
**"Phhoooooooooooooooooffffff"**   
I let out  
the largest   
longest   
breath I may have ever breathed.  
Including childbirth.  
  
Female voice:   
"We copy. We see them!"  
  
Announcer:   
"Time to Splashdown:   
three minutes,   
ten seconds."  
  
Me: "WOW! Three more minutes?!"  
Another deeeeeeeep exhale.  
"It looks like they're almost at the water!"  
  
A deep inhale.   
Me, to the TV:  
"Come'mon, Humanity! You got this!"  
  
\[Male voice:   
"Passing through 10,000 feet..."\]  
  
And then here it is,   
that thriller movie favorite.  
Just when We had been lulled  
into comfort, into confidence:  
*Jump Scare.*  
  
The two chutes sail up   
and away from the craft.  
Those life-saving chutes  
just ***\- poof! -*** Detach.   
The capsule is falling.  
**"OhmyGodOhmyGod!"**  
I am screaming.  
  
I cannot account for this:  
"HHHHUHHHHH!!!!  
Oh, was that *supposed* to happen?  
What the heck is happening?  
Was that a *good* thing????"  
  
\[Male voice, unheard by me:   
Main cutes, deployed."\]  
  
At this point, we see red.  
Or is it orange?   
Orange maybe.   
But, anyway,   
floppy cloth on strings.  
They're uninflated, for sure.  
Limp, even.   
Certainly not assuring me   
that they are functional.  
  
And I've fully   
taken over narrating duties,   
filling the silent air   
where NASA has gone quiet:  
  
"Was that good?"  
Did they--  
Did they fill?  
OKAY - Come 'mon, *come'mo*n!  
Keep filling, *please*!!!"  
  
And then the orange chutes   
become three mushroom caps  
puffy and clearly full of air and I say:  
"Oh my GOSHHHHH!!!!  
**Oh. My-GOSH."**  
  
\[Female voice:   
"We see three good lookin' parachutes."\]  
  
Me: Another enormous whoosh of air.  
\[Intermingled with hyperventilating,   
sniffling, and tears\]  
  
Now NASA's feed returns to  
infrared black and white  
and we see the colorful   
parachutes turn white.  
They are silently descending,   
while the capsule emits...  
puffs of flames.  
  
We all know   
those heat shields are faulty.   
What gives?  
Alarming.  
  
**"IS THAT OKAY????** 
**I WOULD LIKE SOME** 
**EXPLANATION!** 
**From NASA!"**   
I scream  
at the television   
on the wall.  
  
And then I remember.  
I am a Mom.  
A caretaker.  
A guardian.  
And as such,   
I should be reassuring,   
and not escalatory.  
  
And so I say aloud   
(mostly to myself):  
"I assume those   
\[the scary flames\]  
are to slow their   
rate of descent,   
or something."  
  
I aim to sound confident.   
Fingers crossed.  
I now pan my vision,   
and my phone  
(on recording mode)  
over to my daughter.   
  
She is beaming back at me,   
wet shiny eyes,   
tears hovering at the corners.  
Soon, she swivels her head back,  
to lock eyes on the screen.   
  
She's been silent   
this whole time.   
  
We process information   
differently  
but we are   
equally affected   
by this moment.  
Core Memory 2.0.  
  
The video returns to color -   
and we see vivid creamsicle   
of the merry-go-round tops  
against the deepest expanse   
of lapis lazuli blue that  
I've ever laid eyes on.  
  
Another unashamed gasp from me:  
**"Ahhhhh!!!**   
Look how BLUE it is!"   
I am so enchanted  
that I miss the *SPLASH*.  
  
Now I lose it:  
"Oh my GOSH!   
They are in the WATER!!!"  
Oh my Gosh! THEY MADE IT!  
OKAY! GO GET THEM!"  
  
My daughter's face   
breaks into a wide grin.  
  
\[Announcer:   
"Integrity's Astronauts, back on Earth!"\]  
  
\[Me: Unfiltered weeping\]  
"We DID it!   
\[Crying.\]  
\[sniffles\]  
\[More tears\]  
Me, warbling with pride:  
"And **THAT** is why I pay taxes!"  
\= = = =  
  
**VI: Integrity has Landed**  
  
While bobbing in the Pacific  
the next several hours slow to a crawl  
as the bureaucracy and the   
conditions of Earth enter the Chat.  
  
The Sat Phone won't work.  
Mission Control,  
without subtlety,  
inquires if the Astronauts   
know how   
to use a Push-to-Talk phone.  
  
"Yes," they reply,   
they do, in fact, know how  
to depress two buttons at once.  
A little workplace friction,   
the human humor is welcome.  
  
As the majestic   
melds into the mundane  
my heart beat lowers to normal  
and I am filled with a glowing feeling  
a warmth, a comfort,   
a sense of the profound.  
  
I am told by NASA,   
that this experience   
I am having is called:  
"Moon Joy."  
  
The poets, the photographers,   
the scientists, the artists,   
the adventurers, the brave ones,  
and Integrity herself,  
they are all home.   
  
And with them,   
they have gifted us:  
Joy, compassion, curiosity,   
kindness, intelligence,   
and yes, Integrity.  
  
May this be the sacred memory  
that forever comes to mind  
when I hear about re-entry.  
  
Splash down:  
Hope, with a capital   
*Heck Yeah!*  
is back.