tire swing stories

My five year-old son wants to be an astronaut. He flies his toy rocket through the air in our living room. 

Who are these men who explore the cosmos, who push the borders of our universe and return to tell the tale? 

I do not know any astronauts. 

When I was five, I was going to be a cowboy. How simple it was, how easy to assume I'd be larger than life. But as it turns out, I am the exact size of my life, and my life is small.

On the television, a car commercial. 

The sleek silver car races along a twisting road. In small print at the bottom of the screen: 
"Professional driver on closed course. Do not attempt."

In the kitchen, my wife burns herself pulling a cake out of the oven. I hear her cry out. The pan falls to the floor and chunks of cake litter the floor. I go to the freezer for ice cubes. 

"Here, use this," I say, holding out the ice tray." "No, that's all wrong," she says, "It's running water I need." She turns away from me and holds her hand underneath the tap. I return the bag to the freezer and leave the kitchen.

In bed, I lie awake wishing I could still believe in cowboys and astronauts.
My wife beside me feels as remote as a distant star.