Radio Silence
That place had the biggest yard. I lost myself in it, warrens and wire cages, beans looping quiet up their poles. The cat slept in a forest of corn. I told myself my raging sister and I had landed on different planets, that’s all, our signals blocked by moons and storms and boyfriend satellites. One of us might come home a hundred years older. I liked being the only human there. My sister deep in some ocean while I pulled carrots up from a thin surviving crust. I hadn’t imagined this world. Science thought of everything here—music wafting from a silver disc, a vertical curved screen that wrote any book I thought of. You would love this, I wanted to tell her. But her world was somewhere else. My radio wasn’t broken. It sat in perfect working order. I stayed outside and dug so deep in that garden that I found another civilization. At night I talked to the lamp and heated soup on the only burner that worked. I made terrible beginner’s bread and froze half of it for the journey I knew was coming.
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