I looked out through the transparent dome that enclosed my habitat. Craters. Craters As far as the eye could see. Sending me here was the only way to ensure I could do no more damage than I had already done.The damage I caused progressed slowly, but marched toward an inevitable result. Still, the Authorities had time to first bring me to trial and convict me, then build this habitat and exile me here. But it was already too late. Pulling the microphone closer, I adjusted the filter, checked the sound levels, and began to speak:  

Good evening . . . or morning . . . or afternoon . . . whatever it is wherever you are. This is Letters From the Moon, my daily podcast. I will begin as I always do, with an apology. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the crimes I committed. They were terrible crimes that led to my exile. I just didn’t understand. I set off a chain of events I couldn’t control. No one could. The one mercy the judges at my trial allowed me was the means to create this podcast, so I could end each day here with an apology. 

I am the only one here, but the moon is not really such a bad place, even when you’re alone. It gives one a chance to think. Within this enclosure, I have a small garden, with enough resources to feed myself, and a machine to recycle water. Solar panels are enough to keep the lights on and provide minimum heat. I was also allowed a small library, for which I am grateful. You see, it’s like a conversation, talking with writers from the ages, and goodness knows I have no one else to talk to. It’s only a few books, and I have begun to memorize them.

Do I regret my crimes? Yes, absolutely. I know it’s cliché, but if I had it to do over again .

. . well, yes, it’s cliché, and hardly worth saying, because of course, no one gets a do-over. As much as I might wish to, I can’t go back again. 

Earth is now rising on my horizon. It was once called “the blue marble,” but its image now is something very different. I can’t see continents because of the thick haze that covers the earth. All I see is a dense layer of cloud obscuring every feature—every river, every ocean, the ice caps. I imagine the ice caps have grown much larger now, because the sun provides less warmth. I hope all of you have been able to adapt in some way. I hope you’re still able to find some way to grow food . . . and perhaps some way to forgive me.

In some ways, I think I may be the lucky one. Yes, I’m alone, but I can’t really see the damage I’ve caused. I will go on living here, but I don’t know if you will go on living there. You see, I don’t have any equipment to receive signals from Earth. Perhaps I’m talking to no one. Maybe you’re all gone. What a turn that would be; all of you gone, me living here, apologizing on and on, forever.