imagine the repercussions still to come. Then your second brother, we know what came of that. And finally you, she says. We have climbed the hill to the top, are surveying. My mother shades her eyes to gauge the placement of her second son’s final rest. You, she says, weren’t anything expected. Your father and I, we tiptoed for days, awaiting your hatch. Truthfully, he and I barely breathed, we rarely spoke. When your brother zoomed up we walloped him to stop. Off he’d sulk, hide behind a rock, come swimming back but as a whisper this time, slipping right beside your soft shell to gaze inside. He’s always loved you. Remember that. Don’t forget to remember that. It’s important. By this time we can see the first wisps of smoke rising from the hot bugs rubbing. My mother continues to search, tripping through footing, kicking grass aside. Why wouldn’t you know where he is? I call from behind. Shouldn’t you have placed a marker? Isn’t it significant, the death of a child? Your son? In that moment there is no time for reply; flames grow around us, licking in crackles. Come on, come on, she says, reaching for me. We can’t do anything now. It’s beyond our control. But my brother! I cry, ducking. I writhe, gyrate, trying to beat her grasp. Don’t be stupid, she grunts. He’s already dead. It’s you I’m worried about now. She wrestles me to the road. Above us, the airbrushed
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