There was no chill.

By the first week of February I had finished SIX of the nine books and by the end of March I had finished the remaining 3.

That I like this series (both books and the TV Show) has never been in question. What has had me simmering in a pot of thoughts this past week was how voraciously I devoured the read. That ambushed me.

devour(v.) early 14c., devouren, … “eat up entirely, eat ravenously, consume as food," from Old French devorer (12c.) "devour, swallow up, engulf," from Latin devorare "swallow down, accept eagerly," from de "down" (see de-) + vorare "to swallow" (from PIE root *gwora- "food, devouring").

Not a stranger to self-reflection, I sat, not only with why I obliterated the pace of my reading, but also with why I am so consistently drawn to this series, these characters, and this sci-fi world that is messy, broken, and barely hanging on.

It was a longing for home. That’s why. The world of The Expanse is home. The crew, their ship, their journey, their questions of morality and the grand scale impact of micro actions, their celebrations and laments, and the bigger humanity level questions of consumption and care, progress and life.

There is a sense of “home”-lessness in every corner of this story: Belter’s with nothing they feel is there’s, Earthers becoming increasingly irrelevant, Martians chasing dissolving dreams - no one is at home anywhere - so why am I at home here?

I have “drifted” my whole life, between cities, countries, and inner landscapes. My root-system was generally intact, but afloat; held together by persistently nagging soul questions, curiosities, and wanting to feed my mind.

This re-read cracked me open because I realized that, at its heart, the crew of the Rocinante and the Expanse Series is about found family: wayward and disjointed lives finding themselves together in the vastness and becoming a family.

I devoured this series because I missed my imperfect, wayward space family and how they faced problems, and loss, and joy, and growth together.