Human Sister

then, without looking again for the pigeonoid, walk up to the study table on the deck above the house where, on the bench’s seat, I would find a chip with news from Mom or Dad or First Brother. But to date, no pigeonoid had appeared.
    I looked down at Elio’s hand on my thigh. Usually as we drove home together he caressed me playfully along the way, but after two days and a long night of not knowing, of not sleeping, of crying over deeds done and not done, words said and not said to his mother, he finally seemed exhausted.
    I placed my hand on his, and our fingers instinctively curled together.
    “We have to remember to call Luuk and thank him for the roses,” he said.
    When I’d spoken with Luuk the night before, he’d asked how we were and whether there was anything he could do for us. I’d remembered that Aunt Lynh had always had a white rose in a glass vase on her kitchen table, and I’d suggested that he send some white roses to Elio. The next morning, a dozen white roses had been delivered, together with a note wishing Elio and his mother the best.
    “Do you know why Ma always had a white rose on the table?” Elio had asked.
    “No. Why did she?”
    “I never asked—” he’d said, choking on the words before breaking down in tears.

    When we arrived home, we stopped by the grape presses to see Grandma. She enjoyed getting up early and working straight through the day with Carlos and his crew, especially at harvest. She greeted us with kisses and two glasses of free-run Sauvignon Blanc juice, which was frothy and exuded a distinctive aroma of fresh-mowed grass. She said it had the makings of a very good wine. I didn’t ask for news of the battle on Mars. The fragrances of harvest, the sounds of the presses, the trucks overflowing with ripe fruit—all called her to the present, to the there and then, away from thoughts of the irretrievable past or the ungraspable future or even of the ineluctable ongoing catastrophes on a world millions of kilometers away.
    Later that night I was awakened by a light tapping on the bedroom door and bolted up from Elio’s sleeping embrace. “Coming!” I shouted. I yanked open the door and squinted against the bright light.
    Grandpa stood before me in his kimono. His hair was disheveled from sleep, his eyes red and puffy. “There’s been news,” he said. “Get Elio.”
    “Are they okay?”
    His eyes met mine for a moment; then he looked down at the floor. “No.”
    I watched in shock as he turned and slowly walked away. Then, as if in a dream, I watched Elio pick his briefs up from the floor, pull them on, stand motionless beside me.
    “I think something bad has happened,” I said.
    “I heard.”
    For a few seconds I seemed unable to move or think or feel. Then I saw tears form in Elio’s eyes, and from deep within me a great surge of grief cried, “No!”
    Moments later we were told: Mom, Dad, and Aunt Lynh, more fragile than my brothers, had died.

First Brother

    T he house door opens. The dog rises from its lying position in the shade of the garage and runs toward the arborway, from which she emerges, wearing only pants and undershirt. The dog nuzzles her right hand as she walks. She appears not to notice me standing near the tiltrotor.
    She walks southeastward toward three memorial markers lying near the western edge of the garden. Each of the markers is a granite stone, one side of which is polished and inscribed. There is a space about 25 centimeters between the rightmost marker and the middle marker, as well as between the middle marker and the leftmost marker. The markers are surrounded by wilted violas of multifarious colors.
    It is 1 hour 12 minutes 23 seconds before sunset.

Sara

    M ichael just cautioned me, in the same professorial tone as Grandpa would have, as to the possibility that I’m becoming compulsively worried about our safety. Perhaps it’s true—I hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out: I have been inquiring every day, sometimes several times each day, about whether microcracks might be developing in the molluscan outer shells of the domes, and whether he is certain the worm-like robots that constantly monitor the outer surface are all working optimally. He assures me that the domes are fine. He hasn’t said so, but perhaps he thinks I’m the one who’s cracking.
    The only part of the dome’s inner surface that I can see—and, yes, lately I have been examining it carefully and often, perhaps compulsively often—is