our parents told us to always remember home, the evening star

“That dot? It should be bigger.”

“It’s big. So far away it’s small.”

“I know that.” She squints, sighting along her arm. “Like I cover up that big volcano with my thumb.”

“Olympus Mons.”

“I know that.”

“You got it–far makes the volcano small. But Home is a zillion mountains big and a zillion clicks away.”

Giggle. “I can cover it with my eyelash.” Giggle. “It makes my eyelash sparkle. Try it.”

I squint and rotate my head minutely. An old man’s blur. “Sounds wonderful. All I see is a blur. My eyes aren’t young.”

She considers that and moves on.

“When can I go to the Party?”

“Party?”

“To The Party at the Earth place. Where our cousins are.”

To the right of the evening star a brighter dot blooms and burns… out.

“A spark! Is that for the party?”

“Bigger than a spark, sweet. It’s a rocket ship slowing down. That’s what I brought you out to see.”

“Far away?”

“About a day.”

“Is it robots?”

“It’s our long-lost cousins. When they get here we’ll have a family reunion to remember.”

“A party?”

“Best party ever.”