When you are grown, you are walking down the street one day, in the city, and the sun leaps from between the buildings, and you notice it, because you can’t help but. And it strikes you, in that strange moment of blindness when you are all but unaware of your environment, that this is the same sun that caught you by surprise in much the same way between trees when you were a small child. And you know that in some ways this is a connection you will never lose; you have gone from trees to buildings, you have gone from one coast to the other, or perhaps further, the language has changed, your dress has changed, you’ve loved and had your heart broken and people have died and people have been born, but this sun is the same sun that caught you in a flash at any point in your life, and at any other time you see the sun, that, at least, will be the same. This is the strangest part of the colony ships, to me. Not the alien atmosphere with slightly too much nitrogen, not the chirping language of the Ambassadors, not the arching sky fire of the interstellar transports, but the fact that this sun, with its slightly bluish cast, slightly wrong size, and slightly wrong angles, is not the same one I orbited as a child.