“Hello.”

  That’s what the computer said when Gaia woke up. How can something as simple as a computer screen saying hello make her smile? First, it said hello when she was using the IBM computer in 4th grade. Then it said hello when she was typing up a sentence on the Apple computer in the computer lab in middle school. When she was playing Tetris at a computer lab in high school, it asked if she wanted to play again. When she got her first cell phone when she transferred to Long Beach State, the ringtone sounded like a hello.

  Whenever she would hear her cell phone ring, it sounded like: “Hello moto.”

  Now that she was thirty-six with a 20 year old son named James and living in her own house, the Hello from the computer screen felt familiar. She was sure that it said Hello to everyone who owned a computer like hers, but this time it felt different. It was as if it was talking directly to her. Saying Hello to her. Telling her Good morning. Even the things she wrote on Word document over the years felt different. It was like having a friend, assistant, confidant, and guide to help her accomplish what she needed to accomplish that day. It didn’t judge, criticize, or interrupt when she was speaking. It just listened while she droned on and on about trivial, important, big, small, intentional and random things. She has been doing this since elementary, so it was nothing new to write her thoughts out.

  There was some type of connection between the sun and the computer she used. At least this was what she noticed growing up. Despite the things in her childhood that she would rather forget; the sun, with its yellow disposition, warm rays and cheerful energy somehow knew her mood. It always knew how to cheer her up when she was outside in nature. Even at 5 years old when she didn’t know much, she felt things that other kids her age didn’t talk about. She felt the breeze on her skin; warm or cool. She felt the blades and leaves of a plant when she walked by it. She felt the happiness of flowers when she was around to notice them. She knew what the animals, large and small, were thinking when she saw them exploring like her.

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  They were just like her: young, innocent, carefree, and simple. Why couldn’t her family be that way? What was so serious that they couldn’t just be in the moment, appreciate the good and ignore the bad? She didn’t know. She just did what she could, at that particular time, with the abilities that she had.

  Good morning, sunshine. That’s what the sun seemed to say to her whenever she would see it in the morning. Hello. That’s what the computer would say to her whenever she passed by it. Goodnight, my darling. That’s what the moon seemed to say to her when she saw it at night, especially when its silver light poured through her window, past sheer curtains.

  “Good night, moon.” Gaia would think to herself as she looked at the moon. Full in its form, pregnant in its glory, fertile in its purity, blinding white in its innocence. She learned to count on the sun and the moon as she grew up, like the parents she wished she had. The sun would provide light during the day, and the moon would provide light at night. It was like they were teams that took turns, resting at times, watching at times, marveling at times, horrified at times. One time she looked up at the night sky, and she saw a shooting star. It flew right by the stars, then disappeared. It happened so quickly that it was a flash, then it was over.

  Please keep me safe from harm. Soon after, she would fall asleep.